Believing Improbable Things
by feralpixc
Summary: One more life changed by the Winchesters forever. Lots of angst ensues, humor later, romance Deancentric. What do you do when you fall into love, hate and two hunts, two relationships that span decades? How do you survive? This is one journey.
1. Promises Are Whispered

Disclaimer:

Yeah, no. Still don't own anything remotely related to supernatural... except you know, deep, deep obsession. Have fun, and remember that thing we talked about, how you don't sue me, and I keep writing? (We never did, but it applies from now.)

Ps. I'm aussie, so their may be what seems like spelling mistakes to you, but to me are actually the correct way of spelling things.

Peace.

1. Promises Are Whispered in the Age of Darkness

_Is it weird in here, or is it just me? _

_-- Steven Wright _

Your daddy was dead on the bedroom floor, and your brother Scotty had tried to avenge him, leaping up and picking up daddy's gun, levelling it at the thing that had stolen your father's life. The thing had killed him too, sending the gun spinning across the floor, two inches away from your hiding spot.

Where was the man who promised you? Where was the man who said he'd come back? The man with the trustworthy eyes, the man who'd believed you when you told him about the thing that kept trying to come out of your closet – the thing you had to keep sending back, with recitations of Hail Mary, and smoke from your rosemary candle. The man you'd believed when he said he'd come back tonight, because you knew it was growing stronger and you wouldn't be able to keep it back again.

He said he knew what he was doing. That it wouldn't come out until he came back, until midnight. But he was wrong, and now your daddy and your brother were dead. And the thing was still here.

It was going to get you.

Your mommy was out at Auntie Sue's house, with your little brother. They were safe. For some reason, the thing had only started coming out when they'd gone. So, there was only you now. Only you.

Crying silently, you picked up the gun, hoping that the thing wouldn't see you. The weapon hadn't helped your daddy or Scotty, but you had nothing else. You aimed it at the thing standing in the middle of your room, and saw that it was turned towards you, and you knew suddenly that it was mocking you. It knew where you were, it knew you couldn't hurt it, and it was laughing.

Wiping the tears away with your jersey sleeve, you cleared your vision and prepared to go down fighting. You cocked the gun again, and just as your finger tensed to squeeze the trigger the man came in.

He ran in, shotgun levelled at the thing's midriff, a little boy running behind him with a container and a box of matches, and suddenly you were on the floor, a body on top of you, and your daddy's gun skittering across the floor out of your grip.

You were winded, the body holding you down on the floor, heavy and solid, and you couldn't move anything but your eyes, which watched the scene in front of you with a removed, numb feeling your mind recognised as shock.

The man who had promised shot the thing, and it disappeared. It hadn't when your daddy had shot it. The little boy came forwards, offering the container and the matches to the man, who took them, giving the shotgun to the boy who held it with an easiness that amazed you. He couldn't be more than twelve – a year younger than you – yet he was completely at ease with the gun, and you knew by his stance that he could shoot it properly too. Their movements all looked so practiced, like they'd done things like this millions of times before.

The man stalked towards your cupboard, and you watched him from the floor, the body _still_ on top of you. He opened it, and placing the container and matches on the floor, unstrapped the axe attached to his back. "Sam," he said, not looking over his shoulder, "Keep an eye out."

"Yes sir," the little boy answered, and stood at attention, eyes continuously scanning the room for a reappearance of the thing.

The man started hacking at the back of your cupboard with his axe, and all you could do was watch. _What was he doing?_

You got the answer to your unasked question finally, when the man cleared away all the plaster and a black bag fell out onto the floor with a _thunk_. You could tell by the shape of it that it was a body. A dead body. A corpse. In your cupboard. Three dead people in your room – two of them _your family._

Detachedly you wondered why it hadn't started to smell, to permeate your room. Then you felt bile rise in the back of your throat, and hid your face against the neck of the person on top of you as the man cut the bag open. Your arms slid around the neck above you and you clutched tightly. _Dead_. _Dead. Your fault._

You heard something being done, something shaken, that sounded vaguely like a rattle snake warning, and then the hiss of a match being struck. And then the scent of barbeque filled the air.

Finally the body got up, and helped you to your feet. You stared up into saddened green eyes, and the boy who owned them asked, "So, I'm Dean…and you are? And…are you okay?" He looked to be about sixteen – Scotty's age. And, even in your state, you noticed he was beautiful.

"Lauren," you answered. "And, no." Then, at the sight of the burning corpse on your bed, and the disembowelled ones of your father and brother on your white carpeted floor, you vomited on the front of his shirt.

Author's Note:

I am begging for reviews here. I love reviews. They are officially my fave new thing - bar the winchester brothers. And that is saying something. So yeah. A happy writer tends to write more... :D


	2. Son of a Gun

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

2. Son of a Gun

_Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?_

_-- Mae West_

_  
_A woman sits at a table, in some small, forgettable bar, in some small, forgettable town, drinking away the blues. Well, not the blues, per se…just her worries.

It's not the best idea for her to be doing it, but since when has she acted on what's the best idea, or even considered it? Do what you like, and hack the consequences, that's the maxim she lives by. It's not like she has anyone to reprimand her any how – the only trouble she'll get for drinking this straight, cheap whiskey, shot after shot after shot, is from her head in the morning.

The lighting is dim, the atmosphere smoky and filtered through by the emotions of half drunken men; loneliness, nostalgia, barely contained aggression. She's been in dozens just like it all over the country, and she knows how to act to be ignored, disregarded and left to her own devices by everyone except the bar maid. The aura surrounding her wards off even the bravest of the testosterone and alcohol fuelled mass – a combination of disdain and the sign hung across her forehead, reading to anyone with an IQ over twenty 'fuck off'.

Which is why she's so surprised when he comes over, another man watching from a table in the shadows, shaking his head. Maybe he's one of the illiterate few. Then again, maybe he's just stubborn and egotistical enough to take her demeanour as a challenge.

The idiot.

She saw them come in, and knew immediately, from a lifetime of classifying people and reading body language, that they weren't regulars. Besides that, something about them just made her narrow her eyes and take notice. It was in the way they walked, their bearing, the barely discernable glances they shot around the room, taking in everything there was to see. It was practiced, and guarded…and almost predatory. She'd have been wary if she could be bothered, but she couldn't. And besides, they hadn't done anything that would make her abandon her drunken appearance, until the man came over. It would have shocked the bar maid, that after eleven shots, she wasn't even feeling the stirrings of light-headedness. For a small woman, she could hold her alcohol. And then some.

He was the shorter of the two – though that was still pretty darn huge, considering the size of his companion – dark haired and solidly built. He had an unconscious grace about his movements and an understanding of his body that attracted the notice of all the scant female population in the bar, and in the back of her mind she smiled, seeing the fluttered eyelashes, plumped breasts and fetching smiles pasted on hastily lip-sticked mouths as he glided past. They were practically licking their lips.

He was handsome, she'd give him that. An almost mysterious quality shaded his angelic good looks, and the face that smiled down at her could only be described as extraordinary. Eyelashes that rivalled, and in many cases, surpassed a woman's for their density and careless curl, a mouth that looked as ripe as a plum, and the eyes…green, green eyes that could suck away a reckless soul.

Ignoring the glare aimed at him from under a scraped back mass of dark golden curls and arched brows, he sat in the seat across from her, a raised eyebrow and amused smile the only response she received. He waved the bar maid over, who'd been eying him, waiting for her opportunity since he entered the place, and said, his voice a deep husky, and unaccented drawl, "Daisy, is it?" The woman, identified by her work badge and now the man as Daisy, nodded enthusiastically, clutching her writing pad tight to her protruding bosom. It was almost falling out of her low, square necked blouse, and the way she bent closer to the man, inclining her head to the side emphasised this fact even more. "Two of what the lady's having, please, if you don't mind."

At least he had manners, our until-then silent observer thought, before deliberately slurring out a scathing, "Even if she doesn't, I do. Pawn your civility and faux humbleness to someone who can't see straight through it."

"Don't worry about her," the man said to Daisy, as though he was trying to excuse her behaviour, while thoroughly ignoring her. "She's just drunk and cranky. Woman problems, I'm sure you understand," was the last stage-whispered comment, before Daisy smiled, winked and headed back over to the bar, hips swaying like the pendulum of a giant grandfather clock.

Finally turning to her, he smiled, and she almost blinked, it was so dazzlingly beautiful. Instead, she hid her initial reaction, meeting his eyes with furious, golden rimmed hazel green ones, and saying, the drunken slur still in place, "What the fuck do you want?"

"Not much." He shrugged, and as though it were a signal, the other man made his way over too. Six foot and then some, long, lanky and all concealed power, the second man took the last chair at her table. He had shaggy brown hair that fell almost to his shoulders, and warm blue green eyes. A mole beside his long nose, and thin, sculpted lips completed the scruffy, boyish good looks that the woman was sure got him anywhere he wanted. He looked trustworthy…which probably meant he was the exact opposite. The woman crossed her arms over her chest, discreetly checking the locations of the knives in her arm and wrist sheaths. If they made any untoward actions, she'd be more than ready to protect herself. "How about you start by telling us your name, or shall we just…guess?"

"Dean…" the second man warned, and smiled at the woman. Mentally she shook her head and rolled her eyes. She didn't know what they wanted, but they were playing good cop, bad cop to get it, which just amused the hell out of her. They weren't getting a damn thing. "We're just looking for a friend of ours…and we thought you might be able to help us."

He was baiting her. Taking a sip out of her almost empty glass, she debated on whether or not she should bite. Play along, or get the hell out of here? God knew she had enough enemies, and if she'd been found out…she had to move quickly. Dispose of all the evidence. Until she knew for certain however…she decided to let it lie for a bit, and see what it was the men wanted, then decide. "Now," she said finally, leaning back in her chair again. "One, why would you think that I could help you, and two, even if I could, boy, why on earth would you think I would?" A broad Texan accent thickened the slur further; it wasn't real, but she could fake it better than real Texans could, and they didn't have to know that, seeing as how she'd been using it since she'd arrived. Give them the wrong information, something they could remember that wasn't true, and maybe she'd be a little safer if anyone else came looking.

"Well, let's see now," the first man – Dean, wasn't it? – said, and leaned forwards on his elbows, cocking his head. "You exactly match the picture we have of the person we were sent to look for. So let's drop the act, shall we?"

"Who sent you to look for me?" the woman asked, both the slur and accent dropping immediately, as the man had suggested. She narrowed her eyes, and put two fingers to each spring that would automatically place her knives in her palms. "Who are you?"

The taller man sighed, shaking his head resignedly at the man named Dean. "Do you know of a John Winchester?" he asked finally, turning to face the woman once more.

At that question the woman froze. John, John Winchester, an old acquaintance who'd killed the thing that murdered her daddy and her brother ten years ago. The man who'd started her on this path; giving her all the knowledge she needed to protect herself if the remnants of her family were threatened again, and his phone number, as well as unknowingly sparking the thirst she had for saving people and hunting things, just like he did. John was simply the first of her teachers, and her hero and role model; the first encounter she ever had with things that went beyond the boundaries of normal and explainable. Or as she often called them – things that go bump in the night.

She'd kept in touch over the years, informing him about new hunts, things she herself couldn't handle, or needed knowledge about. She was a hunter now and besides, she told him her whereabouts before every other hunt, just in case. She didn't want to turn out like the things she hunted, and he understood.

He also told her about his sons. They were hunters too.

Sam and – "Dean. Sam and Dean Winchester. Right?" she asked, still a little standoffish. They nodded. "Prove it." As one entity, they glanced at each other, and then the taller one nodded again, reaching inside his pocket. Using his own body as a cover from the eyes of the rest of the bar she settled her left wrist knife against his throat, it having appeared in her hand in a blink. "Slowly, if you don't want a red smile from ear to ear, please, Sam. And Dean? Keep still."

She kept an eye on both his hand and the other man, whose tense body posture she knew concealed power and swiftness that matched, and probably exceeded, her own. Now was not the time to be taken by surprise.

Slowly, and keeping his eyes on hers, the man claiming to be Sam pulled out a tattered book out from the inside of his coat. He placed it just as carefully onto the table top, and then flicked his eyes towards where it lay and back up, suggesting with out words for her to take a look.

She eased back, searching for any movements that could threaten her safety as she went, and when she was entirely back in her own seat, she slid the book closer to her.

As soon as she'd looked at it properly, she recognised it.

It was John's journal. Her eyes shot up into Dean's, who smirked, then Sam's, who nodded and said, "He thought we needed it more than he did."

"Uh…" she said, softly, and then opened it up. On the first page, on top of the first entry was her picture. She'd sent it to John last week, informing him of what she was hunting, and how she didn't know if she'd come out alive. The picture was in case she didn't check in – he'd need it to follow up on her, find out where she'd been, all that, and then to finally identify her body, if there was one. He hadn't seen her in a decade after all, and one does change. "Why are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Dean asked. "We're here to help you kill it. Dad was worried about you."

"I don't need help," she spat, and stood up. The very suggestion wounded her pride. Even at the start John had been against the idea of her hunting, then telling her what she was capable and incapable of taking on, forever underestimating her potential. It made her so _mad._ She hadn't needed help since that first night, when she'd been as helpless as a new born kitten in the presence of that poltergeist that had killed her family. The poltergeist that had been her real father, and who had been killed by the one she _thought_ was her daddy.

The action of standing was undermined a little as she put a hand to the side of her head. It had left her head a bit swirlier than it had been a second ago, and she considered the idea that the whiskey may finally have been having an effect, then discarded it. "I work alone." She had ever since…well, since ever since. That's when.

"Not this time," Dean said, standing up too. He towered over her five foot four frame, but she didn't back down. Intimidation techniques were a crude practice. "You don't have a choice."

"No?" she asked, rhetorically it turns out, as just after she knocked him out with a swift right hook under his jaw.

"You probably shouldn't have done that," Sam said, standing and sighing at the sight of Dean's body sprawled along the floor. The bar studiously ignored them, and Daisy, who'd just started heading over with the whiskey shots, turned back, almost spilling them. "Now we have to carry him to the Impala, and then inside the motel room, and when he wakes up, he's gonna be pissed."

"We?"

"Yeah."

"Sam, I don't need help." She crossed her arms again, stubbornness and determination underlying her every syllable.

"Of course you don't. But we're giving it to you anyway. Well, maybe. I mean… Dean's gonna be pretty against the idea when he wakes up."

Deciding that she didn't want to get on John's bad side by knocking out both his sons and declining his offering of help, that she liked Sam, and she didn't want to die after all, she grinned, slapped a couple of notes down on the wooden table, and picked up Dean's feet. Looking up at Sam she said, "We going, or what? Blondie here isn't going to move himself."

A/N: I hope you like it so far. Any suggestions appreciated. REVIEWS ARE LOVE.


	3. Scars Remind Us That The Past Is Real

Disclaimer - see chapter one.

3. Scars Remind Us That the Past Is Real

_It's difficult to see the picture when you are inside the frame._

"Remember, stay behind us, and don't –"

"Dean, if you think I'm just going to let you guys sweep the kill out from under me, after all the research I've done and preparation I put in before you two arrived, you're an idiot."

Dean sighed, and I saw the look he exchanged with Sammy. They exchanged those looks all the time, as though I was too short to notice them going over my head or something. "Fine, whatever."

"Plan?" Sam asked, checking the rock salt bullets in his shotgun, and eyeing down the barrel.

"Salt and burn," Dean said. "What else?"

"Well, genius, he's not just going to _let_ us. I'll be a distraction, you guys pry open the tomb, salt and burn, then we're _outties_. And I never have to set sight on your ugly mugs again." I grinned up at the two of them cheerily. In actual fact, I think I'll miss their company. Dean made hours of research pass in the blink of an eye, his companionship and comments making me want to laugh repeatedly – though I hid it, because it'd just pave the way for his gloating, and make his big head swell. And then there was Sam – Sam was brilliant. Not only had he stopped arguments between Dean and me from getting too heated over the past two days, he was just as good as Dean was at getting information out of the locals, except he approached it an a far different fashion. They had made my job a whole lot easier, which meant that I hadn't really been able to show them I knew what I was doing. That they could tell John that I was perfectly capable of looking after myself, and didn't need help. That I was a good hunter in my own right.

This was my last chance to prove it.

"Lauren, you shouldn't –"

"Oh, don't worry, I'll be careful." I grinned up at Dean, into his green eyes. The mark where I'd knocked him out at the bar was a fading yellow bruise now, and barely noticeable…unless you were looking up at the bottom of his jaw continuously. Which I was, due to his height, and mine in comparison. "Now come on, let's waste it."

I knew he was rolling his eyes at my back as I entered the mausoleum, but I couldn't bring myself to care. _I'd show them what I was made of._

It all happened in a blur. The boys were hiding somewhere, and I was shoving at the lid of the tomb, waiting for the poltergeist to show. Then it attacked me, and I swiped at it with my blade, a present from Pastor Jim – one hundred percent iron. I led it away from the tomb, turning its back so the boys could get to work. I swung, and again – but the bastard was quicker than even I'd thought when researching it. Suddenly it grabbed where my hand held on, and the cold numbness started to spread.

I let go of the knife, and fell back, planning to roll and come up with my gun. But the thing moved like lightning – half way through my roll it stabbed my knife through the back of my left knee – through the skin and muscle, just missing my hamstring. It nailed me into the concrete floor of the mausoleum with my own blade.

I screamed then – this sound wrenched out from deep in my gut, full of pain and higher than a banshee's. This I knew for a fact – I'd taken a banshee. My vision tunnelled, and I saw it floating over me, body transparent enough for me to see the boys turning away from their job of opening the lid.

"Lauren!" Dean yelled, and the poltergeist turned around, seeing them for the first time. It started towards them. I could see them going for their guns, as though they were in slow motion, the ghost speeding towards them, and through the pain I pulled the gun off my back.

_Breathe in, _I thought, cocking the gun against my shoulder and leaning up on one elbow, the pain in my knee threatening to make me pass out. _Breathe out…centre yourself. _And then I shot it, twice in rapid succession in its back, the rock salt taking immediate effect.

The kick back and resulting jerk against my whole body, and thus, knee nailed to the floor, made me pass out from the pain.

When I came to again, Sam was holding my shoulders down against the floor so I couldn't move, and Dean was hunched down at my knee. I knew Dean was going to yank it out, it was going to hurt like a bitch, and I'd probably pass out again, but it all seemed to fade gently into the background as his eyes met mine and he said, "Thanks. Good shot," in this half congratulatory, half wondering voice, like he couldn't believe I could shoot that well. It was moving pretty damn fast after all.

I just smiled, and then he yanked, and the black curtain of unconsciousness dropped over my eyes again.

Later…I felt my eyelashes flutter against my cheekbones before I realised I was awake, and then decided I didn't want to be. My knee didn't feel like it was both on fire, and about to fall off when I was unconscious. Over the sound of blood rushing in my ears, my own hitched breath, and the kind of blank sound that came when I was in pain, I heard Dean's voice.

"…really great shot dad. Don't know what would have happened if she hadn't. I think she saved us." It felt really weird, hearing him compliment me on my shooting to John. My stomach twisted a little, and I wondered whether I was going to vomit, or if it was something else entirely. What, I didn't know. "But she did a real job on her knee while she was at it – knife just missed the hamstring, she's lucky she's not gonna limp for the rest of her life, as it is she'll have scars. Sam fixed it up. Yeah, he's fine. Yeah, I'm fine too, thanks for asking. Thing's dead. We salted and burned it." Dean paused in his phone call. "But – yes sir. I know. But you'll have a hard time convincing her of that. Even if you pick the, 'then I won't have to worry about the three of you if you're together' speech. She won't like it at all." Dean paused again. "Yes, sir. I'll try. Bye."

I heard the click of his fold-up phone being closed, and said without opening my eyes, "If John was suggesting that the three of us travel together…"

"He was."

"Then –"

"Lauren! You're awake!" Sam's happy voice came into my radar, and I opened my eyes to look up – and up – and up – at him.

"That would be a yes. But if you don't sit down soon the vertigo is going to make me pass out again, Sam."

He grinned and sat down on the bed, then looked over at Dean. "What did dad say?"

"He had this idea…that the three of us should travel together for a while. Help each other out. Hunt. You know. Then he won't have to worry about us and Lauren on her own as much."

Sam glanced at me, apprehensive as to my response. I'd been less than enthusiastic when the idea had first come up, only a couple of days ago, and then it had only been for a single hunt, not an extended period of time. I had hunted on my own practically the whole time I _had_ been hunting. Except…well, that was different.

"Mmmmmm…" I grunted, mind coming back to the present. I sat up on my elbows, and looked at each of them in turn. "Well –"

"How's your leg?" Sam interrupted. "I told Dean we should have gone to the hospital, but – well – yeah. We'll go in the morning, when he's thought of a good cover story, alright? I did the best I could, I stitched and bandaged –"

"Yeah, okay Sam. Can I talk now?" Dean grinned, and Sam just ducked his head, probably embarrassed to be caught out so easily. But then, the way he'd changed the topic had been beyond pathetically obvious so… "If John was suggesting that the three of us travel together…" I said, "He may not be completely mad after all."

AN. Reviews are thoroughly appreciated, no matter what you have to say. Be it two words long, two pages... thanks.


	4. When the Most I Could Do

4. When the Most I Could Do Was To Just Blame Myself

_Is sex dirty? Only if it's done right._

_-- Woody Allen_

It was hard not to notice Dean.

He was one of those beautiful people that got continuous attention from everyone; strangers, demons and ghosts, Sam, girls…

Girls. Millions of girls a week it seemed, prostrated themselves in Dean's view, like pieces of meat on display. You sat quietly as he made his choices in bars, diners, and motels all over the country, and didn't say a word, even though several images ran through your mind, many of them containing him and knives, and choking. Lots of knives and choking. Sam didn't say anything either, but then, Sam didn't care unless it interfered with the hunt.

It wasn't like Dean screwed every girl he came across, or that made themselves open to him; he was just a normal guy. You knew this.

Maybe it was the way the women were setting back feminism by another hundred years, by portraying themselves in this light, just to get a man's attention that pissed you off so much. Maybe it was the callous way Dean treated them – fuck and run. But then again, you supposed they deserved it, that that was what they had been asking for. You just hated to see women undermined in that fashion.

Dean didn't just use the girls for himself, he used them for information. Turn on the charm, turn on the pheromones that practically screamed to women 'I am an _animal'_, and the smile that melted them into piles of goo, and he had everything he needed to continue our investigations.

Despite the fact that it saved you a whole lot of trouble…you _hated_ it. You knew why you were _really_ pissed off, somewhere in the back of your mind – you just really, _really_ didn't want to admit it. It'd make a whole lot of things a whole lot more complicated, and no one needed that right now.

This was all running through your brain as you sat at yet another nondescript diner in Iowa. You were just passing through, had decided to stop here to get some chow before you started on the road again in Dean's Impala.

You were waiting for it to appear now – you'd had to go for a piss when you'd come in, so the boys had ordered for you. You wondered what they'd gotten you, and if you could bear to eat it. You hardly ever ate in the mornings – all you were used to was a cup of very strong, very sweet black coffee, and maybe a muffin for the road. But the boys went for the huge, trucker meals – fried everything, with coffee or juice. They could sure pack it away, and it never showed. In perfect, trim health, both of the bastards.

"Can I get you anything else?" a sultry, feminine voice asks to your left. You look around Sammy, to see a pair of breasts practically falling out of a too-tight top, and beyond them a blonde haired woman smiling down at Dean from behind bubble-gum pink lips and blue-eye-shadowed eyes. She was bending down close to Dean, and had just put plates down on the table – two trucker's meals, with three cups of coffee and a big, perfect orange and poppy seed muffin. _God bless whoever ordered_...you think, and then notice the smile the woman is levelling at Dean, the way her arms are held to push up her breasts even more, to maximise her cleavage, and you close your eyes. _Not again…_

Dean, who had been looking at the newspaper, trying to find a new hunt for the three of you, looked up at her from under his eyelashes, and smiled. The woman put her pen to her mouth, and tossed her hair back, tongue circling the pen lid. You tried not to laugh, though at the same time you felt like scratching her eyes out.

_Fucking whore. _

Sam passes you your coffee and muffin, putting his own plate in front of him and starting to eat, thoroughly ignoring the waitress and Dean. You struggle to do the same.

_Ignore…ignore them…_

You did such a good job that you didn't hear what the waitress said to get Dean to follow her out the back. All you knew was when he came back a quarter of an hour later, smelling of cheap perfume and cheap sex, his palms dirty with the imprint of a brick wall on them, his hair even messier than it had been, and smears of bubblegum pink lipstick on his neck, you wanted to throw his cold coffee in his face.

000

When you saw them it was an accident.

Sam was filling the tank up with petrol, while Dean was supposed to be inside paying for it and buying food. All you wanted was to use the bathroom. You'd said as much to Sam, grabbing your toothbrush and toothpaste from inside your duffel bag, and leaving the relative safety of the Impala to find the latrines.

It was a very small sound that caught your attention, a rhythmic gasping, _ah – ah – ah_, under the breath. You rounded the corner of the building, toothbrush clutched in your hand.

You should have moved on straight away, when you saw them. But you found you couldn't. You stood fixed to the spot, staring. They were in the shadows, but the sunlight revealed them to your eyes dimly. You didn't know who the woman was. She had her back to the concrete wall, and her legs apart, mini-skirt hitched up around her waist, underwear around her ankles, and Dean was doing to her what he'd done to countless women around the county. He was not embracing the woman; he had his two hands flat against the wall, on either side of her head, and his eyes were closed as he thrust and thrust inside her. She did not seem unwilling at all; it was her little cries you'd heard, and in the light from the sun you could see her eyes half closed, her face flushed, her lips parted.

You could not seem to make your legs move to carry you away from where you had no business lingering. The pace of their movement increased, and the woman gave a shuddering moan, and then Dean cried out and pushed inside her one last time, and you were finally able to back away on silent feet, your cheeks hot with embarrassment and shame.

You ran all the way back to the Impala, and scrambled inside, hiding your face against the jacket you'd left in there. The video of Dean and the woman replayed over and over behind your eyelids, until you wanted to scrape your eyeballs out of your head. Even then, you didn't think the imprinted image would disappear. Sam asked you worriedly, "Lauren! What's wrong?"

You mumbled a confused, "Nothing, just cold, forgot the –" and then Dean was back, his hands holding a couple of bags of Doritos and three bottles of soft drink. He was completely at ease, though his cheeks were a little pinker than usual, and his clothes were rumpled.

_Fucking asshole. How can he look so calm, so composed, after he just rooted some chick he met less than ten minutes ago against a bathroom wall? _

"What's up with you two?" he asked, tossing the junk to Sam as he slid into the driver's seat.

"Nothing. I just need to pee. Now. Be back in a second." You rushed out of the car, and as soon as you were in one of the toilet cubicles, vomited. Shakily, you were glad that you'd still been clutching your toothbrush and paste when you'd escaped, as you brushed your teeth until your gums bled and the aftertaste of bile was gone. You don't know exactly what it was about that scene that had disturbed you so much, it just made you feel sick and angry and hurt all at once. Thus the spewing of the guts. It was probably the fact that you were falling in love with him, and little things like this made you crumble into tiny pieces inside. Or maybe it was your mind superimposing you in that woman's position, and the fact that you wanted it so much it hurt, while simultaneously wanting to go and kick the shit out of Dean.

The closed door of the second cubicle opened behind you to emit the woman Dean had been fucking, and she stepped up to the mirrors next to you. She washed her hands, then reapplied her ruby lipstick. She wasn't unattractive – Dean had a very specific type. She had a generous figure, blonde hair and fine dark eyes. Long legs, heart shaped face, tiny waist and huge bosom. Just like all the other woman you'd seen him skip off with.

She saw you staring at her in the mirror and said, "You got a problem, bitch?" pursing her lips and tossing back her hair.

Yeah, you did. But not with her. Well, not _really, _despite the fact you wanted to rip her hair out of her skull, tie her up with it and shove her back into the cubicle she'd just come out of. The problem you had was mostly with yourself. "No," you answered her finally. "You just smeared your lipstick."

You went back to the Impala, and didn't talk to Dean for four days afterwards, except to ask him to pass the salt when you burnt the body of a poltergeist that had been killing gay men.

He never did figure out why, and you never told him.

AN... just i case you didn't get it, the last sentence is about her coldness to Dean...not the gay men killing. Thank you.


	5. Unfamiliar Walls Surround Me

Disclaimer: See Chapt. One.

5. Unfamiliar Walls Surround Me

_Knocked, you weren't in._

_-- Opportunity_

I was waiting in the car with Sam when Dean came back from the motel reception area, muttering to himself and holding onto the keys to the motel room he'd just paid for.

"What is it?" Sam asked him, as I took hold of the strap of my bag, and started wishing fervently for hot, hot water. And lots of it. Lots and lots of hot water. And soap. And then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep.

"They only have one room, with two doubles. Two of us are gonna have to share."

At that my mind blanked. There was no way I was going to share a bed with D- one of _them_. "You two will have to share," I said carelessly, as though it was obvious.

"What?" they asked in unison.

"I thought I was pretty coherent. You. Two. Will. Have –"

"No way am I sharing with Sam," Dean said, shaking his head. He opened the boot and grabbed his duffle bag out of the trunk, while I opened the door and climbed out, Sam just behind me. "He's way too big. We'd never both fit. Besides…he's my brother, and we are way too old to be sharing beds."

"Yeah, well I'd have the same problem! With the size issue, I mean," I said, grumpily. I was trying very hard not to think of the third option. And failing.

"Well, you two will just have to share then," Sam said, looking at the two of us as though we were suddenly the dumb ones. _Oh god_…

"What?!" I shrieked. Then cleared my throat, and tried to compose myself, affecting nonchalance. _Don't be so fucking obvious. Nothing is wrong, sharing a bed with Dean won't be so bad…it'll be fine…who am I kidding? _"_No_. I don't share. Dean, you can sleep on the floor."_ 'I don't share?' Is that the best you could come up with_? I just really don't want to imagine it, having to share a bed with him, his warmth right next to me, and his body inches away. I'd want to reach out and touch him so badly it would hurt – well, more so than it did every other time I was near him. I mean, _really_. Is god doing this just to spite me, or do I just have seriously _bad_, bad luck?

"Are you joking? It's fucking freezing tonight. If you don't want to share, _you_ can sleep on the floor."

I closed my eyes. _Yeah, right. _The night air was cooling down even further as we spoke, and it was already nearing the minus degrees. I did not want to freeze to death. All I wanted was an uninterrupted, good night's sleep…and maybe a slice of Dean naked on the side, but they don't need to know that. And I don't need to think about it. I have to sleep in the same bed as him tonight after all. Let's batten down those instincts, shall we?

"Fine," I said tiredly, and grabbed the keys from Dean's fingers, slinging my backpack on and stomping off towards the motel room. I was too exhausted to argue anymore, and besides…it might not all be so bad. If I wake up in the morning spooned against his body I can just claim it was a natural instinct that came about according to the temperature. Still…

_Damn them both. _

_If only Sam had been a little smaller. If only Dean had decided to be nice, and sleep on the floor. If only he wasn't so fucking hot, and I wasn't in puppy love with him. _

I unlocked the room and stalked inside, throwing my bag into the bathroom and following it with heavy steps. "By the way," I called, as I heard them come into the room behind me. "I shotgun the shower."

I slammed the door on them before they could answer it, locking it and then leaning back against it, closing my eyes and sighing, pinching the bridge of my nose with two fingers. The white painted, wooden door behind my shoulders gave me a certain solidity, a stability against what was going to happen this night. _Nothing of course – but just that – and then – _

_Contain yourself…_I thought, then stripped off quickly, turning on the water in the shower, and then stepping inside. _Hot. Very hot. At least one thing is on my side tonight. _

I was used to sharing water with them by now, so after rushing through the cleaning ritual – soaping off and rinsing, washing my hair with conditioner (I needed to get more shampoo…), and wishing for more time – I hopped out. Towelling off, I pulled my sleepwear on – a pair of short black shorts, and a long-sleeved jersey. Usually I'd sleep in a tank top, but as had already been established, tonight was freezing. Then I left the bathroom, and chucked my bag onto the bed, Dean passing me and closing the bathroom door behind him. We all brushed our teeth after everyone was done in the shower, it was fairer that way, and everyone had a shower roughly the same time as each other. We were all desperate for one by the time we stopped at a motel, so this way there was a lot less complaining and fighting over who got first dibs on the hot water.

Sam and Dean never changed in the bathroom. I'd learnt by now to start reading before and after my turn in the shower was over, so I'd have something to distract me from their glistening, tanned, mostly naked bodies. Sam, although I considered him to be more of a brother than an object of lust, was still damn hot, and I was a red blooded heterosexual woman. We already know I want to eat Dean up with a spoon. Okay…fuck the spoon, just give me Dean on a plate and I'd kiss your feet.

The image made me grin.

I tied my hair back into a messy plait, and then grabbed a book out of my backpack. I'd started reading it for the third consecutive time last night. If they didn't want me to start going insane, I needed to buy a new book, and soon. I mean, _The Colour Purple_ was a really great book, full of emancipation and pain and confronting issues and spirit, but that didn't mean I wanted to read it over and over again.

Especially when I could be perving on two very attractive pieces of male flesh.

Dean came out of bathroom and got dressed, and I ignored him, eyes glued to lines of writing. Sam came out soon after, and then we each took a turn at brushing our teeth. Finally it was time for lights out, and I slipped into the bed closest to the door, pulling the blankets over my shoulders, and clutching them to my neck. Dean always slept in the bed closest to the door – I wondered if Sam knew that it was to protect him.

_Big brother, protector, and hero to the last._

Dean's weight settled behind my back on the bed and I clenched the blankets even tighter in my hands as the lights blinked off. The other side of the blankets lifted, and I felt the cool air of the night hit my back, where my jersey had ridden up. Then suddenly his back was pressed against mine and I couldn't breathe.

_He wasn't wearing a shirt, the idiot. He knows how cold it's going to get tonight…_were my last thoughts before my mind closed down and my senses came alive.

Sight…I couldn't see hardly anything, in the black stillness of the room. Unfamiliar shadows made by furniture and the weak moonlight filtering in through the window clustered in groups around the room, like dark children. The back of Sam's head, black in the obscurity of the night.

Taste…I could still taste the peppermint toothpaste I had just brushed with, the flavour clinging to my tongue and teeth, to the back of my throat. I swallowed and it came back weaker, the saliva drying in my mouth as Dean's presence swept over me in repeated, heated waves.

Smell…I could smell him – cheap, motel soap, the clinging smoke of our last hunt, and underlying it all, a heady masculine scent that was all Dean's own – sharp and tangy, but mellow somehow, comforting and familiar, with a hint of musk and fire and blood.

Sound…I could hear his breathing pattern behind me, slow and soothing, deep and regular, though I knew he wasn't asleep yet. He was just performing breathing exercises until he dropped off into la-la land. There was a hitch in the breathing for a second as I stretched away from him, it only resulting in us being pressed even firmer together, and then the pattern began again.

Touch…we were connected from my shoulders all along my back, until the little dip at the bear of it, and then our backsides were pressed together, before our legs trailed away. His skin was warm and smooth, pressed against the soft material of my jersey. A sliver of my bare skin was touching his, and that sliver held my complete attention. If I moved even a little, it would glide across his. His breathing ensured that our skin rhythmically brushed, and just that sensation alone made me want to moan with the pleasure-pain.

Pleasure – because, hello – Dean. Touching. Me. Pain – because it wasn't _intentional_ and it was _tiny_ and it didn't _signify_ anything at _all_.

Despite these facts, a double bed had never seemed so small. All my consciousness was on the places where we touched. And I couldn't breathe. Well, I could _hardly _breathe, I mean, I wasn't dead _yet_. I occasionally sucked in a silent, strangled breath through my mouth, hoping he didn't realise, that he wasn't listening to my breathing with the dedication I was listening to his.

Because then he'd figure it out.

AN Thanks everyone who reviewed, I really appreciate it. I'd love more - as well as constructive criticism and predictions on what's going to happen. :D Coz then I can crush them mercilessly!! FUN!!! Okay, thanks again. 3


	6. Lighten Up While You Still Can

6. Lighten Up While You Still Can

_It takes two to tell the truth: one to speak and one to hear._

She rides in the back of the black Impala – the car she has come to love, as it is an extension of the person she both loves and hates. He is the designated driver this day. Even with the sun shining through the glass windows glinting on his peach skin and the breeze stirring the short strands of his dark blonde hair making him look like a flying angel, she feels nothing more than acute annoyance towards him.

"_Dean_…" she says, drawing the word out until it is almost, but not quite, a whine; a child's plea for attention. "_De-e-an_…"

He sighs, and the motion ripples his shoulders beneath his leather jacket. If she was any less focused on the task she had set herself, she would have taken the time to notice, and thoroughly appreciate this. Fortunately, the task at hand was a pressing one, and she was dedicated. "You rang?" he asks, the trademark sarcasm evident in his voice, and she buries a smile.

"Yes. You know how much you love me?" How she wishes this was true. "And you know how absolutely amazing you are?" Butter him up, butter him up, never mind that she believes what she's saying. "Well…"

"Sam, does she have a point?"

"I'm not sure Dean. I'm just waiting to see when she runs out of compliments. It's you, so there can't be many left that aren't complete lies."

She smiles, tilting her head to the side and pretends she's agreeing with Sam's teasing remark. In actual fact, if you gave her twenty-four hours in which she couldn't say anything but Dean's good points, or talk about him exclusively, or list everything she loved about him, she could go on for about ten more, without drawing breath. But then, that was when she was in a good mood about him. If she was in a bad mood, she could go on about the bad things for the same amount of time – and probably extra.

Usually she was in a bad mood – he put her there with careless and amazing ease.

"I need to go shopping."

The startled glance he sends her through the rear view mirror is not missed, and Sam turns his head around, expressive aqua eyes just as confused as his brother's green ones. "What?" Sam asks, scrunching his nose up on one side, eyebrows beetling. This is the expression she often catches on his face when Dean says something to take him aback, or he's confused, or speechless. She views it with the affectionate detachment of an older sibling, then turns her eyes back to Dean. After all, he's the one she has to win over on this day.

"Well, you see…unless you want me to go insane and start killing you both, I need a new book, or ten, shampoo, _good_ soap, moisturiser…" and, if her calculations and womanly instincts were correct, pads and tampons. But she won't tell them that, unless Dean is completely unreasonable, and it's the only way to turn him around. He wouldn't like her to stain the Impala would he? That's something she'd also rather avoid. "And stuff."

"Uh, in case it escaped your notice Lauren, we're kind of trailing an incubus here. Unless you'd _like_ for innocent women to be raped in their beds and bear devil spawn of course."

"Oh, Dean, don't be so melodramatic. As you can clearly see, its _day time_. And incubi only attack at _night_. Besides, a fifteen minute stop at some gas station posing as a Wal-Mart will not cramp our hunting." Speaking of cramps…she bites her lip, closes her eyes and her eyebrows raise in the face she makes when suppressing pain. When she opens her eyes again it's with a silent sigh of relief – they hadn't noticed.

She really should have bought supplies before they left – but she'd still been half asleep, eyes puffy and glazed, mind still stagnant, and pink mouth yawning. There had been no time for a shower to wake her up, as Dean had been almost military in his precise actions and just as loud as any drill sergeant in his commands for her and Sam to get _up_, get _dressed_ and _pack_. He'd found a hunt, and they needed to _go, now, now, now people!_ He was, of course, being sarcastic. But it was still piercing enough to wake her up. That was the only way for her to come completely conscious in the morning – a shower. Or if that was unattainable, a big, steaming cup of black coffee, with approximately two spadefuls of sugar added.

Neither had been forthcoming, which is why she hadn't realised the date and attached consequences of it until all of ten minutes earlier. Her body clock was exactly that – like clockwork, and '_they'_ came exactly twenty eight days after each previous one. Sometimes she could even pinpoint the hour they were going to start. And then, even if she couldn't, her stomach always supplied her with ample warnings.

"You don't need any of those items right _now_, do you?"

None of the items she'd _listed_, perhaps, although they were all elementary for a woman's survival. Especially the books, when she was shoved into the back of a moving car every other day, with nothing to do but sleep, listen to music and watch the uninspiring scenery pass. She could practically _feel_ her mind melting.

She knows that Dean won't stop for her on the basis of shampoo and books, but she _really_ doesn't want to have to use the womanly troubles excuse. Things between the three of them would be embarrassed and strained for days afterwards. "As I said, unless you want me to start killing…yes, I need them. Now. Now, as in right now. As in, the next gas station we come across, you're stopping, or I'm jumping out of the car."

"Now who's being melodramatic?" he asks, and she narrows her eyes at the back of his head, happily imagining a couple of arrows sticking out of it, like the spikes on a porcupine's back. He was about as _thick _as a porcupine. Okay, no, that was a little harsh. Porcupines were far more intelligent than Dean Winchester, at this moment in time.

She turns her huge eyes on Sam, making them grow even wider and fill with tears. The glassy, hazel green and gold orbs seem to overbrim with sorrow, and she knows by the way he flicks his eyes uncomfortably away from her, to Dean, and back again, that he's falling for it. Her puppy eyes are almost as effective as his own.

Mentally, she smiles. With Sam on her side, Dean would cave, and soon. Very soon. He could never deny his little brother anything. _Especially _if Sam used his own puppy dog eyes. That expression was a masterpiece.

She'd observed this to her advantage over the past month and a half she'd been travelling with the brothers, and used it when it was necessary to get Sam on her side. She would never turn him against Dean; of course not…it was just that sometimes she needed a little extra help. Dean was difficult, often, and about the stupidest things. Like vegetables, eating in for once, instead of out at diners, and chores – like laundry and cleaning. If he _really_ expected her to do it all, he was the worst kind of Neanderthal. She'd called him this, and several other much more insulting adjectives, when he'd refused to do his share…Sam had helped her out then too, going on and on about fairness and equality, how everyone needed to pull their own weight. If it wasn't the puppy dog look Sam was giving Dean, it was the never ending flow of words that finally convinced him to give in – he'd done _all_ of the laundry that night.

"Look, Dean," Sam starts, his voice cajoling and smooth. He flicks his eyes in the woman's direction again, and the sight urges him to continue. "Fifteen minutes won't hurt. We'll still reach the town with plenty of time to pinpoint where it'd make its next move."

Dean's eyes glance, his annoyance obvious, at the two people staring at him, both with identical, '_come on Dean, please, please, please?_' expressions on their faces. The female's holds an underlying smugness that tells him that she knows he's already giving in, and makes his eyes narrow even further. _He ought to_… then again, if he didn't agree now it'd only postpone the inevitable, and Dean wasn't one for drawing painful things out.

"Fine," he grunts, and the woman's smile is all worth it, her eyes lighting up with an inner fire he recognises in his own spirit, and full, bowed lips curving upwards, dimples appearing. His brother's smile mirrors hers, and they both settle back in their seats, content.

000

The tall boy sleeps in the back, form crumpled and folded into a pretzel shape that allows him to fit, however uncomfortably, onto the back seat with most of his body lying horizontal. His mouth is open and his breathing pattern steep and steady, rhythmic, and slow. His sea eyes are closed, their careful watchfulness shuttered for the time being, as the tarmac road passes swiftly by several layers of leather and metal beneath him. His long, scruffy brown mop is hanging down, covering half his face, and his head leans atop an arm and two jackets, one of them his, one of them hers. His other arm dangles somewhere amidst the debris on the floor – cartons and packets and paper cups and a half open backpack that spills books amongst the rubbish – while his long, lithe legs are lost somewhere under his brother's seat.

The woman sits in the front, next to the driver, whose eyes sport purples bags that do not inspire much confidence in his driving capabilities. She watches the tall boy with one watchful, almost maternal, eye, the other lingering with too much attention on the older boy to be entirely innocent. She turns the ACDC tape, which is singing loudly and powerfully about cats' eyes and hanging and being back in black, down another notch, because she knows that the tall boy needs his sleep, and he doesn't have any particularly affectionate feelings towards his brother's music taste.

The older boy is quiet, watching the road with a studied intensity, and she settles her head back against the smooth, buttery leather behind her, slumping in the seat and feeling like she could sleep for three days straight. Her young bones are exhausted and hurting, and she's pretty sure at least one rib needs strapping, but that's not important right now. What's important is the way the moonlight reflects upon Dean's stubbled jaw, making his whole profile out of blues and blacks and greys, the jutting of his cheekbones even more prominent, and turning the line of his neck that leads into his shirt into a column that begs to be followed with eyes and hands and tongue.

"Lauren," the older boy speaks up suddenly, his voice low and hoarse, jerking her out of her self-imposed half stupor, half fantasy, and guiltily into the present. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Didn't give me much choice, did you sunshine?" she retorts, in a whisper just as soft as his. She loves jerking Dean's chain. It supplies her with unlimited, never ending amusement and vengeance, as he did it just as often to her. "Yeah," she sighs when he doesn't rise to the bait. "What is it?"

"You could have gone on with your normal life, after dad and me and Sam left you ten years ago. Not exactly, but mostly, and maybe a little safer. Why didn't you?"

This deep questioning, especially from Dean, surprises the woman. If anyone, she would have expected Sam to have asked her about this issue. Dean avoided emotional, soul bearing conversations like this, as though they were the Black Plague.

She wonders if Sam put him up to it, or if he's just trying to find a way to keep himself awake. In any case, she's trying to find a way out of answering – things like this weren't her cup of tea either.

She hated tea.

"Uh…I'm not really sure," she answers, and her tongue runs over her suddenly dry lips, trying to bring a little moisture. "It just seemed like something I had to do." And on the other hand, she hadn't really had much choice.

"Why?" Dean asks, not taking his eyes off the road, the steady, illuminating headlights of the Impala brightening the tarmac before them with ease. His gaze follows the bend in the road, and they take the next exit out of the town, before she answers him.

"I left home so I could study things-that-go-bump-in-the-night-ology," she says, and sees his mouth quirk in the dark, an answering quirk hitting her stomach hard, desire pooling and melting the barriers she should have been building over this topic. His smile affected her in ways she couldn't even begin to dissect, nor did she want to spend that much time on trying to. Too fucking confusing. "After that poltergeist – my _real _dad – killed Thomas, the guy I thought was my dad, and my brother Scott, everything seemed a lie to me. Thomas had killed my real dad. Mom had lied to me about my parentage. The very foundations of real, and right and wrong seemed to have disappeared." In the darkness of the car her voice seemed to take on an almost ethereal quality, lending the story she was telling a mysterious and soulful edge. It was all true too, and as she related it to Dean, she felt as though she were reliving it – the images of her mother screaming as she found out what had happened, the disembowelled bodies of Scott and Thom, the thing that was her real dad standing transparent before her eyes each night, before she sent him away with scared, adolescent determination, his corpse burning on her bed, John and Sam and Dean helping her speak to the cops, John telling her the truth, all of it appeared behind her eyelids again, in an uninterrupted flow of faces and fire and blood. "And it occurred to me that other people were dying because of things like this. That mine wasn't the only family affected. And I just…I wanted to help them. No offence, Dean, but you guys can't do it all. There are plenty of jobs to go 'round for every hunter out there, and then some. So I just…yeah. Ten years later, here we are." It wasn't the whole truth, but it was enough. She didn't wish to think about the rest, even now. "You?"

Dean paused, his discomfort evident. He cleared his throat several times, rolled his shoulders and, although it was obvious he wanted to avoid the conversation he had initiated, continued. "See, I never really had a choice," Dean says, his voice husky from the punch in the windpipe he got from the incubi's mate. "It was always hunting, since I was four, and that son of a bitch killed my mom. And, I guess it's a good thing for me, that I never really _wanted_ to do anything else. I know the importance of what it is we do, and Sam can deny it all he wants…but I think it's our destiny."

"You believe in destiny?" she asks, half actually surprised and curious, half just wanting to prod him. She knows he never would have opened up to her like this, but for the unique combination of dark, and travel and silence, their own exhaustion, and the sleeping presence of Sam behind their backs. She wants to keep it going as long as she can, wants to find out all she is able to about the man she's in love with, but in some ways, hardly knows at all.

"Sometimes," he answers, completely unruffled. He flicks his eyes towards her, black in the darkness. "Don't you?"

"I think its more cause and effect. If Thom hadn't killed my dad, and then vice versa, John wouldn't have come, I wouldn't have known about the paranormal, I wouldn't have become a hunter. Besides, I hate the idea of anyone, or anything having control over my life. Don't you?" she asks, mocking his question to put them back on an even footing again. All this uncomfortable soul bearing is making her wish for sleep even more fervently, which battles the desire to know Dean.

He turns his head to look at her completely now, gaze taking in her stiff posture, wide eyes and bloody lip, where the incubi they'd originally been after had dealt her a nasty uppercut. She was fidgeting, and he could tell the conversation was at a close when he turned his eyes back to the road again.

"Yeah." He smiles to himself, a secret, unseen smile, and they drive off into the silence of the night.

000

The acute tension between them stretched, taut and animal, like the seconds of silence before an explosion, the calm before the storm that rips half a roof off. Sooner or later, one of them was going to have to give, but both of them tell themselves in their silent, angry mentalities that it won't be them.

Two faces eye the road before them with the ferocity they wish they could turn on each other, but to start to would be the sign that they are weakening. And weakness has never been allowed, especially not between the two of them.

The silence in the classic, powerful black car is only compounded by the man's tape; a loud, rolling mixture of rock, acoustic and barely concealed animosity, and the song seems perfect somehow. _Never free_, the artist sings, _so I'm dubbed the unforgiven_.

The woman is the first to fold, her nature having been fighting against the strained quiet since it had started, and her pride wishing to thrash the man off of his hypocritical high horse. "I can't believe you think it's alright for _you_ to practically pimp yourself out for information, but you won't let me do it! Pot and kettle much?"

"It's different for me."

"Oh, yeah? How so? Regale me with the stories of your superiority with handling such things, in comparison to little, unexperienced me."

"It's not like that, and you know it Lauren! You're trying to get the _thing_ to notice you, not just get information from bystanders. Do you want to end up dead, or worse, its plaything?"

"You don't think I can take care of myself. That's what this is really about, isn't it? Well, you're not the first one to think like that, and look at me, I'm still here, still alive and in one piece, still fighting. What is it about me that makes people constantly underestimate what I can do? For fuck's sake, I can handle it okay? I was doing it long before you came along, and –"

"That is _not_ what this is about! You're just putting yourself in danger to get this over with. You're so reckless sometimes, especially when we're hunting. It's like you don't even care what happens to you. Different hunts require different approaches, rather than just jumping in with guns blazing every single time."

"What's more different than guns blazing, etcetera, than ingratiating myself into its inner circle? If you'd just let me –"

"No. I don't like it, its not happening." He faces the front again, face unreachable, carved out of living stone; these are his last words on the subject and he will not be swayed.

If the tall boy were here, the older one knew that he would be on her side and calling him irrational, telling him it would probably work and it was the best idea they had. But he just couldn't view it in such a light.

On one hand, he didn't trust her not to just take the thing on herself, when she thought she had a clear shot; on the other he just didn't like the idea of her that susceptible to attack. She was like a train off its rails; rampaging and destroying everything in its path, uncaring of any damage the carriage itself happened to undergo. It was as though the woman didn't care whether she lived or died, as long as she took as many evil things as she could with her.

He didn't know who, or what it was that had made her so guarded, and closed off; who had made her view the world with such pessimistic aggression – but whoever he was, if Dean ever met them, they were going to pay the consequences in sweat and blood. Very rarely did she show anything that could be construed as human, and if she did, she immediately covered it up with a smart ass comment, trying to shield the pain and any other parts of her personality from them. It reminded him of the time when Sam had left to go to college – he'd been in a pain, felt a sharp betrayal, akin to the one he suspected she was going through. But he'd had his father to keep him safe, and watch his back. The woman had no one but him and Sam – and he wasn't going to let her go off and attempt stupid things like this, without the proper consideration they deserved, without thinking about it for a long time, viewing it from every angle and finally deciding on the right course of action.

Then again, it was her, and he never expected her to give in without a fight.

"This is not a negotiation Dean. Either let me do it, and do what you can to protect me, or I'll just go at it alone, without your help. There is no other way, and all the research Sammy's doing at the library is not going to change the facts."

He just shakes his head, watching the road, and the music fills the car again, leaving them both unsatisfied, and the solutions to their problems still inconclusive. Her eyes glide over his profile for a minute after he has turned away from her; their shields momentarily dropping to bare a soul brimming with unspoken truths and undercurrents. Little does she realise the man has just as many he could speak, but chooses not to.

These truths neither will voice, and even if either did, they knew the other wouldn't accept.

AN: ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHH

The next chapter is so surprising and unexpected and WOW… :D I can't wait to update – but I'm not gonna, unless I get at least 3 reviews. THAT'S THREE REVIEWS OR NO UPDATING UNTIL I CAVE…. Which will take a long time because I'm so patient. :D:D 3. 3. 3. 3. THREE. Please. I know, evil. But I can't help it, I love reviews, and if I have to resort to these kind of tactics to get them, then that's just how its got to be. I hope you enjoyed this one, and that you have inklings of what's going to happen next. If you do, you're WRONG. MWAHAHAHAHA. But still tell me about them. Lauren, shut up. OK, bye!!!


	7. Shoot First, Apologise Later

Disclaimer... See Chapter One.

7. Shoot First, Apologise Later

_Its business doing pleasure with you._

_Maybe Dean was right_, is your only thought as the demon shoves you up against the wall, his teeth amassing in his maw as you watch, his knife heavy against your jugular. _But I'll never admit it._

"I'm going to peel the flesh from your bones, layer by layer, until it's only your eyeballs, your bones and your vital organs looking up at me. You'll still be alive, though, just for daring to come here. What do you think of that?" the demon's threats come, slashing through the air along with lightly acidic saliva that bites your face. Its eyes burn with the familiar fire of the damned.

You wanted to yawn in its face.

"Well, gee, thanks. But, you know, I'd really rather you didn't." You shove against him, but your strength, though it far surpasses many of your gender and age, is not nearly enough to affect the demon's hold.

It smiles, and the knife performs a calculated twitch against the silken, yielding skin of your throat, opening a small cut that leaks ruby life blood onto the blade. It pools there and the demon watches it with the deliberate, sadistic pleasure of a predator. A predator that was looking kind of hungry before its favourite meal jumped into its jaws, clung to its rather large teeth with strong hands and started to shout _'eat me, eat me!'_.

You don't move a muscle, ignoring the threat as though it were non-existent. You've gotten yourself out of worse fixes, you're sure. You can't think of any _right now_ that have been worse, but you're sure there must have been at least _one_.

"Mind the skin, buddy. It's a unique item, shipped all the way from the womb of –"

"Shut up," the demon hisses, and its spittle flicks your face again, along with the knife. He glides its tip over your cheekbone, the metal a cold kiss against the heat of your skin. You close your eyes, and think to yourself, _For fuck's sake…_

"Dude, okay, fine. But just one last thing? Say it, don't spray it."

The flames in the demon's eyes seem to grow higher and you realise its going to be the last thing you see as it raises the knife above its head, probably planning to use it much as a farmer would a sickle. Except the harvest _this_ spring was your head.

Screw the romantic Titanic death scene, of Rose dying in her bed, old and fulfilled. Screw the going down in glory and freedom, and being buoyed with the reassurance that you'd be blazing forever in the minds of hunters and innocents alike. You were going to die now, here, today, and your last memory was going to be a slobbering demon with a beer belly, a toupee, too many teeth for his fleshy mouth, and a cheap suit. You'd fade into obscurity, and possibly the most anyone would ever say about you would be, '_oh, that – what was it? – Lauren chick? Yeah…what a failure she turned out to be'_.

You didn't want to die.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a familiar voice sounded from across the room, and you could have burst into tears. Not because you were scared or anything…it was just, it had been a long, long time since anyone had had your back like these boys did. Sure, John'd be there to clean up your mess if you were ever idiotic enough to get yourself killed, and you're sure that any other hunter in the area that had known you would have gotten revenge – but Sam and Dean were just there, their frank protectiveness, and the sure, yet surprising, knowledge that practically anything they had they'd give you in a heartbeat – although it was a major feminist bubble burster – kept you loving them. And equally wanting to run as far away as you possibly could.

The last time you'd hunted with someone, had been in a team effort like this – well, it hadn't worked out all that peachy. You weren't ready to open up to anyone yet.

However, in times like this, when they were saving your ass (even though Dean was probably going to whup it, then gloat over it later), came in very handy.

"Oh, and how are you going to stop m–" the demon started monologue-ing slash rhetorically questioning your rescuers. God, you hated it when the bad guy started doing that. Can you say walking stereotype?

He was cut off swiftly by two shots in the back of his head, that due to the slant came out of his head again in the front and the bullets thudded into the wall, leaving impact marks about the size of your fist. They missed you by about half of that width. Looking straight ahead, you saw Dean, his gun still pointed where the demon's head had been scarce two seconds ago. You wondered vaguely if he was going to shoot you too, for being such an idiot. You hoped not, though. Imagine, escaping death from a demon, only to be killed by Dean. Sam was standing behind him, you realised, pretty much as an after thought. Sam didn't look like he was going to kill you. Well, at least not as much.

"So…" you said, looking down at the body sprawled in front of you, and nodding slowly. Saliva started to smoke the wood around its mouth as blood pooled beneath its head. You cleared your throat, and pursed your lips, still nodding awkwardly. "Awesome shot. Are we leaving now?"

Dean stalked inside, gun still held at his side. _Don't look away,_ you coached yourself. _Show no fear…_ It was surprisingly harder to be brave in the face of Dean's anger, as opposed to the demon's threat. Strange. "You're bleeding," Dean said, eyes running over the skin of your neck, where the demon had cut you, and your right cheek, green eyes finally deigning to meet yours. You hadn't even registered it, when the demon had sliced up your cheek. _If I get a scar…_you thought, horrified, and then Dean held out a big, square, man's handkerchief with the hand that wasn't clutching the gun with white knuckles. It was blue, and at least half clean. "Clean up. We'll talk about this later." You stared at it, until he made an impatient sound in the back of his throat, jerking it up and down in front of your face until you reached for it. You took it from his hand, fingers touching for a millisecond, and – repressing the instinct to stare at it some more – pressed it against your neck wound. He turned, and walked out, neither Sam nor he saying another word. You followed quietly, content for once to stay silent.

Suddenly the thought of the big pay out you were going to get didn't piss you off anymore. It hardly even worried you…

It meant he cared, at least.

000

You wanted to scream. You wanted to kick, and bite and scratch and tear and claw your way out of this situation – the situation that was possibly your very worse nightmare personified.

You'd been flirting. Everyone flirts, right? Everyone does it, it's not like it was something that was taboo, or illegal or demanded strict punishment. It was an innocent pastime that signified interest in a member of your race.

It didn't mean that you wanted to be pressed up against a cold, damp, solid brick alley wall, with a huge body covering yours entirely, and a mouth that was as cold and damp as the wall behind you clamped down on yours.

It had all happened as though in slow motion; the guy had invited you out the back, and you'd thought to yourself, _'why the hell shouldn't I? I deserve fun in my life. I shouldn't keep hounding and harping after something I never even had a chance of getting'_. So you'd followed him out here, and thought that even if he did try something funny, you had the upper hand, right? You had weapons, you had training, you had strength. The only thing you didn't have was the element of surprise – he did. He'd shoved you against the brick wall, the impact leaving you winded for that single crucial second it took for him to get the advantage.

And now, here you were.

You squirmed, trying to escape the guy –_ what was his name? _– as he shoved a tongue down the back of your throat, activating gag reflexes and almost choking you. You pushed against his chest, and then pinched and twisted at his skin repeatedly, as powerfully as you could from this angle. Your hands were caught between your bodies, from when you'd realised what was happening and had settled into a pose to protect yourself. You couldn't reach any of your weapons, your knife, your guns, your safety pin even. If you could, you wouldn't hesitate to use them on this man that dared to – that dared to – to use and violate you in this –

He just moaned, grinding himself against your stomach, and ripping your t-shirt so he could get to your breasts. The cold air assaulting your chest made it even more real to you. Gooseflesh rippled all over the exposed skin, and your nipples hardened with the chill.

This was happening. It was really happening. But your mind still couldn't seem to grasp the concept, refusing steadfastly to believe it was happening to _you_. Things like this couldn't happen to you. You weren't normal. Things like this didn't happen to people like you. You were supposed to be immune from things like this.

His fingers twisting your nipples, cruel, hard, demanding, stripped you of this misconception. You gasped into his mouth, and he seemed to take it as desire on your part, dancing his tongue around your own. You tried to bite it, and when you did, he reared back and slapped you with one open hand, knocking your head back against the bricks behind you, not stars, but flickering red and black dots appearing behind your eyelids.

Suddenly the cool air was back on your body, instead of an overheated, drunken weight. You blinked, shocked, and then saw them on the ground.

Dean was straddling the guy and punching him, over and over and over, repeatedly, one fist then the next smashing his face into a pulp. Dean's fist rearing back, then pummelling forwards, hurtling towards the guy's face and snapping it back repeatedly from where it was held up against the ground by Dean's fist clutching his shirt. The crunch of bones rearranging, the blood flowing freely from his nose and mouth, the cuts appearing from Dean's ring tearing his skin, it was all viewed through a calm, peaceful serenity on your behalf.

You stood there, black t-shirt torn wide open down the front, exposing your breasts enclosed in their serviceable black bra, hair curling around your face in wild, vulnerable disarray, eyebrow bleeding from where the man hit you, hazel gold eyes wide and glazed, viewing the scene before you as though it were all a strange dream.

It was rhythmic – animal and wild, yet strictly disciplined and controlled. Dean was probably operating at the same level of rage that you had been when the guy had first put his hands on you, minus the fear. Even if he wasn't the angriest you'd ever seen him, like that time you'd attracted the attention of a werewolf when you were supposed to be guarding the victim but had swapped places with Sam, or when you'd gotten a hole in your shoulder leaping in front of him to save him from being stabbed in the heart by the poker that one poltergeist had been wielding. This time he was in absolute control of himself, which was _really fucking scary_ – the combination of rage and restraint mixing to create this rationally thinking Dean that had the power to murder without a qualm.

He was going to kill that man.

You couldn't let him.

The man was unconscious and probably going into some happy, painless place he didn't deserve when you pulled Dean off of him as hard as you could – it only resulted in him trying to shrug you off, and as a consequence you tugging harder until you both fell back onto the concrete in a sprawl of limbs and denim and leather.

"Dean," you puffed, breathing in sharply and almost panting. You stared up at him, mouth working. He just waited, raising his eyebrows and inviting you to continue. You knew you had to do it – you knew it but it still rankled, so you sighed and closed your eyes, tightening your grip on the front of his shirt when he ran out of patience and made to climb off you again. You opened your eyes again and said, crankily, but still saying it none the less; "You – well, you saved me. Thank you." He'd better appreciate it – you hardly ever thanked anyone, ever. He was one of the few that weren't random barkeeps or waitresses. And you weren't just saying it to pacify him, to make him calmer and less likely to get off you and back onto the guy. You actually meant it.

He looked down at you, from where he'd lifted himself onto his elbows above you, and his tense, locked jaw almost seemed to soften a little. Almost. His green eyes blinked down at you as he said, completely and succinctly; "God Lauren, I made myself a promise to protect you – but I never knew it was going to be so fucking hard. Okay, I did, but seriously. Trouble just follows you around, doesn't it?"

Your mind just stayed on the first part of what he'd said, instead of clinging to his exasperation in you as it usually would. After all, he'd just almost killed your wanna-be molester. You couldn't really start going off at him, could you? And besides… "When did you make this promise?" And _why?_

"Doesn't matter." You could almost feel his mental shrug and withdrawal. "Sam's still in there, probably worrying about us by now. You know how he is. Let's go." He got off of you, and you almost felt bereft. His weight pressed against all of you was a completely different experience to the other guy's. Pleasant. Arousing. You felt as though you could have taken him right there on the dirty concrete, the unconscious guy two feet away. But that wasn't surprising really. You wanted Dean almost every second of the day. Even when he was pissing you off. He was just like that.

Besides, now your chest was exposed again, and the night air was _really fucking cold_. It made you shiver as he offered you a hand to help you up, and you took it, eyes meeting again as your bodies knocked each other's with his still anger-fuelled momentum. "Yeah," you said, letting go of his huge, warm, calloused hand and turning away. You held the front of you shirt together, pointing yourself in the direction of the bar again and trying to smooth your hair down. There was no way Sam wouldn't realise what had happened and freak out; but a girl had to try, right? "Let's go."

000

It was just another seedy bar in another boring town, just like all the rest. You didn't want alcohol, you didn't want companionship, or Sam's diligent researching of your latest case, and you especially didn't want to have to sit there and watch some Twinkie and her best friend, both of them barely over the legal drinking age, proposition Dean, who was flirting back so hard it made your head spin just watching them at it. It wasn't the only part of your anatomy they made churn, either.

You ever noticed how many different ways there are to say 'throwing up'? Heaving, chucking, and vomiting, of course. Hurling, tossing your cookies. Puking. Ralphing. Cascading, perhaps, though it doesn't quite do the actual act justice. Blowing chunks, for instance, captures the precise imagery of it. Spewing your guts. Tangoing with the toilet. Technicolour yawn. Barfing…

So you came outside, and were slumming on the hood of the Impala, thinking of as many more euphemisms for it, and thus, your feelings on the whole Twinkie plus friend plus Dean scenario as you possibly could, when you saw her.

You couldn't believe it. Of all the places, of all the times, of all the _people_ you ever, ever could have seen, noticed, or hoped to have seen – it was _her_. At least – you thought it was. It might be. It could be. Couldn't it? Or was that just wishful thinking? Did you _want_ to see her? Had it really been so long that you couldn't recognise the way she walked, the way she held herself, carried herself? Had it really been so long that it may be just a random woman that you tricked yourself into thinking was her?

Your throat was dry, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth – but somehow you were able to get your mouth running. Jaw working, lips trembling, you mouthed the word – her name – a couple of times, before it came out, croaky, strangled, a half gasp, half tortured supplication to some higher cause.

"Sharika?" you whispered, then again, louder. "Sharika?"

The woman turned around. It was her.

Suddenly the anger hit you, wiping away all the fear and hope that had first hit you when you'd seen her familiar face – no, not the anger, _the rage_. The white hot, furious, all consuming rage, hurt, betrayal, pain. How many words were there to list all the different emotions you were feeling?

Not nearly enough.

Your jaw was a tense line of feeling, strong and uncompromising, as you tried to hold it back, this redness you felt sweeping over your mind, over your eyes in heated waves. You clenched your fists, nails digging into the skin of your palms and leaving half-moon markings that you would look at later, seeing the bruises and sharp imprints, and wonder how they had come to be. You didn't even realise you were doing it – all you knew was you had to stop yourself from the impulse to wrap your hands around her neck and choke out all the words she should have said to you. Your every atom was focused on her. What would she say? What would she do?

"Lauren?" she whispered back, and you heard her. Barely five feet away from you, she stood, in closer proximity than the two of you had shared in over a _year_. A whole fucking year.

Your eyes were filling with tears. _Tears of confusion_, you told yourself, but you weren't sure you believed it. This was plenty confusing of course, even without the added weight of your crazed and tangled thought and emotional patterns. But then you had to take everything else into account. Especially the anger.

You couldn't talk. All you could do was stare at her, heart pounding like a sledge hammer against your ribcage, throat working, right eyebrow twitching. You were trying to keep your face expressionless, but it wasn't working out all that great. You could feel the mask that had kept you safe since she'd left you slip, and you felt closer to – insert your favourite term for heaving here – than you had even while watching Dean.

She was speechless too; eyes wide with shock and confusion, and you knew what she was going to do seconds before she did it. That's what happens when you know someone better than they know themselves. "I'm sorry, so sorry," she whispered, and made to teleport out, but before the idea barely triggered in her brain, you were on top of her, straddling her waist where she lay against the concrete. She wouldn't be going anywhere now, without taking you with her.

"You," you hiss, pressing her shoulders into the ground, fingers digging in against her soft flesh. "You," you say again, tears choking you, clogging your throat. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"Working a job. You?"

"Same. Well, that's enough pleasantries, I believe. Why _the fuck _did you leave me? _Where the hell_ have you been?" These questions had been burning you, torturing you since that fateful day last year when you'd awoken in your motel bed, and all her stuff had been gone. There was no note, no phone call, to tell you what was going on; her numbers had been changed, her car was left behind with you so you couldn't have tracked her that way, and she was far too experienced to ever be brought in by the police. Even her credit cards were cancelled. She was always a one for details, which led you to wonder how long she'd been planning it.

You'd had to face it though, finally; any interaction between the two of you from then on would be on her terms. If it ever came. It hadn't.

Until now.

You were shaking with the intensity of your fury as you stared down at her. Her dark eyes were looking up at you in shock and hurt, black hair splayed against the dirty concrete. She wet her lips and opened her mouth – you had to make an effort to concentrate, to do something other than stare and stare and hold yourself back. You didn't want to hurt _her_, no matter what she'd done to you. _You_ weren't that kind of person.

"Lauren, I –"

You lost it then. The sound of your name on her lips again, as though nothing had changed, as though everything were the same and she was just berating you over something ordinary, like forgetting to take the dirty socks to the laundry room with the rest of the clothes. You started shaking her by the shoulders, banging her head and body repeatedly back against the pavement Her hair flew up around your face, mingling with your own loose curls, and your eyes were closed, face screwed up as the words were torn out of you. "_A whole fucking year, with no contact, Sharika. No contact at all – and no way for me to – do you know what it did to me? Do you? Do you?! Do you even fucking care?!_" You were yelling now, and the real words didn't come out. The ones you'd practiced in case this eventuality ever came up – you even practiced in your dreams sometimes, except those were a lot more violent. The ones that weren't all pent up agony and frustration and hate and –

She rolled you over suddenly, and she was on top of you in the exact position you'd just been in, face in your face, hands clutching your shoulders. A single one of your ringlets stayed curled around a lock of her hair, as though it was trying to keep in contact. As though it couldn't bear to let all of her go. You stared at it as she leant closer to you, trying to capture your eye.

"Lauren –"

"Get off me!" you screamed. _"Get off me!_" Suddenly her touching you was just wrong and too much and you wanted her off you, you wanted her gone, anywhere but here, anywhere you didn't have to see her, to deal with these waves of emotion, feelings like you hadn't felt for –

"Lauren, please –"

"Get off her!" the voice came. You'd half been expecting it; they always show up when you're in the most compromising of positions. When you're in trouble. They must expect it from you by now, too.

You must have blanked for a moment, because she was off you, and Dean was picking you up, and you were staring at her and Sam was trying to say something, trying to ask you something, ask her something, and you could barely hear it over the rushing in your ears.

You're standing now, Dean's body shielding you from most of her view, though you can still see her face from under his arm, as his hands are on your shoulders, shaking you a little, trying to get you to pay attention to what he is saying. You realise he's been speaking for a while now, he must have been, the exasperation on his face shows this.

"Who is she, Lauren?" Dean's face is in your face now, practically pressed up against yours its so close. You stare at the tiny, almost invisible freckles on his nose, trying to register his words. He's trying to break you out of your shock, and you know it, so you try to answer. But all that comes out is a half truth, a once automatic response.

"My best friend."

AN: Hope it wasn't too….anything. Next chapter is a flashback. You'll see – if I get another three reviews! Hey, if it works, why change it? I know, it must be annoying and evil and stuff…but…yeah. Can you _really _blame me? Ok. Cool. Hope you liked it. BYEEEE.


	8. Fears Become Your Friends

Disclaimer: See chapter one, and ignore the spelling mistake in the bit where I was talking about my spelling seeming off to everyone else.. Lol. I can't believe I wrote their instead of there when I was going on about spelling... STUPID. But amusing.

8. Fears Become Your Friends and They End Up Smiling

_It's not the fall that kills you, it's the landing._

_Seven years earlier_

I walked up Bobby's driveway, the familiar stretch of road just as long and rough as it had always been, the gravel scraping against the soles of my worn boots, the dust sticking in the back of my dry throat and to all the damp places exposed by my clothes. A large boy's t-shirt and scuffed hipster jeans were my uniform, and my hair was scraped back in its usual hasty plait, shielding me from most of the grit that came at me with the hot wind. But the dust still stuck to my sweaty upper lip, and neck; I'd been walking here from town, about three miles behind me. Carrying everything I owned on my back – weaponry, clothes, and thick books containing lore on supernatural beings – it wasn't easy going, but I'd done the trip countless times over the years, so it wasn't as though it was any different, or new to me. Besides, what was at the end of the long walk always made the journey worthwhile.

Bobby was about as close to family as I had these days – an uncle, maybe. And there was always news about other hunters, new weapons for the never ending battle, a newly discovered way to kill things, and even an ice cold beer. Then, of course, there were his cars.

Bobby was a mechanic come hunter, and he'd lived in this place, a junkyard, for years. It was a home base for anyone he considered a friend, and I was lucky enough to be on the tiny list. If I was good, or taking a short break from the job, he often let me look over his new acquisitions – and I felt like a kid in a candy shop. I'd grown up with strong, typically masculine men since the very budding of my teen years, and they'd taught me everything they knew – life, supernatural entities, the best way to melt down silver, how to run scams, how to sweet talk authority figures, how to get information out of locals, all about women – which was really strange…– and sex – which was so awkward I still didn't get how anyone would _want _to do something like that. And of course, the love of many of their lives' – _cars_.

I was sixteen now after all, old enough for sex, if I wanted it, and old enough to drive, not that I hadn't had my fake license for years already – I needed to start thinking about getting my own car. Not only would it haul all my stuff around for me, give me a convenient out of any town I overstayed my welcome in, it'd stop me from having to steal other people's cars or taking public transport to get from a to b. It'd even give me a place to sleep some nights, and my own independence.

I was already mentally running over the meagre savings I had in the duffle bag on my back – careful budgeting on my behalf from my hustling profits, and the occasional reimbursing victims gave me after saving their miserable hides – it didn't happen as often as you'd think. Most of them just wanted me out of their lives as soon as possible – I was an uncomfortable reminder that the world wasn't nearly as black and white, as normal and rational as they'd believed. But sometimes I met some that gave me a home cooked meal, and as much cash as they could possibly afford. I always declined, even though I knew that I needed it, and they always pressed it on me until I accepted. It was hard not to, the knowledge that I didn't know where I'd be getting my next billfold from, and that they were trying to thank me for saving their lives made me cave eventually, unless I could get out of there before they started on it.

I rubbed some of the dirt out of my eyes and looked up ahead again. Bobby's house was just around this next clump of trees, and any second now I'd see it, or his old, beloved dog Quincy would come leaping towards me, panting and out of breath, and just as fat as he'd been since I'd known him. He was seventeen years old this year, and probably didn't have many left in him. Bobby had already been considering a litter of pups the last time I'd been there, thinking of getting a new puppy while Quince was still around; give him a friend in his dotage. I wondered if he had or not, as I rounded the corner.

His battered old truck was pulled up in front of his house, which I studied with trained eyes. Wind chimes, and dream catchers swung from the porch rafters, signs for protection were engraved on window and door frames, salt lines ran across every entrance into his house, and he even grew a few raggedy weeds that I recognised as plants that were known shielding herbs. It looked just the same as it always had, and a smile lifted the side of my mouth – the first real one in a month, I realised. I only ever smiled these days to seem more open to people, or if something caught me as particularly ironic.

But this – seeing the old house – made me want to laugh with a quiet, familiar joy. Some things never changed.

Putting two fingers in my mouth I emitted the wolf whistle I'd perfected over years of living with men, and heard the familiar scrape of short nails on scuffed wood. Two seconds later a fat bundle of brown and white fur shot at me from the screen door, and leapt up on my chest. Quincy was still as limber as a puppy.

His weight sat me down in the dust and I started to giggle, until he started licking my face – then I started to laugh all out. His wet, sloppy tongue ran all over my face, as though he was trying to give me a bath – I tried to get away from him, but his paws were firmly planted on my chest and he just kept going at it. I tried to turn my face away, laughing and yelling 'Get off!', but of course he didn't listen. It was pure, unadulterated joy to be here again, and _I loved this dog_.

"Lauren?" Bobby rough voice called, and then he was on the porch, grinning his familiar old smile at me, tanned and weather beaten face creasing. He was sporting a new salt and pepper beard the exact same colour and texture as his short cropped hair, and his brown eyes looked as sincere and wise as ever as he came down the porch steps laughing at the spectacle Quince and I surely made, rolling in the dust, hair flying, tail wagging, barks and giggles and amused reprimands choked out. "Bloody hell it's good to see you. Looks like Quincy's missed you, too." He was a master at understatement. Bobby laughed again, then called the dog over to him – he went after a last lick that had slobber go up my nose – and I sat up finally, pushing ringlets out of my eyes, and wiping my face with my arm.

"Hi," I said, and got up. I grinned at the man, and tucked a curl behind my ear, resting my hands on my hips. "Looks like you're getting old, Bobby. Never thought I'd see the day where you were sporting a fisherman's beard."

"Yeah, well, I've just been too lazy to get myself a new razor. Well, come on, girl. You look like you could use a cold one."

"You're telling me?" Picking up my discarded duffle bag I followed him inside, the household smells of grease and smoke assaulting my nose. I breathed in deeply, and dodging the piles of books and mechanical tools heaped everywhere, walked after him into the space I thought of as the living area. Bobby's hoarded books on supernatural affairs the same way some people hoarded collectable dolls. His house had an alcove that could loosely be called a kitchen, and his bedroom. That was the whole house, bar from his shed out back where he made his weapons and fixed up his cars.

"You just missed John," Bobby shouted over his shoulder, as he went into the kitchen and I dropped my bag onto the floor. I felt my stomach drop at the news, and my face melt into a pout. I'd been looking forwards to seeing him again – he was pretty much my mentor, and he had saved my life that day three years ago. I hardly ever saw him. "He left yesterday with his sons."

"Sons?" I vaguely remembered two boys.

"Yeah, Sam and Dean. You've met them, haven't you?"

"Once." I couldn't even see their faces in my head. Just those green, green eyes and the other boy's dimples. I shrugged, disinterested, and walked over to one of the stacks of books, leafing through the pages. It was a detailed journal of a hunter's life in the eighteen hundreds.

"Yeah, they dropped a car off – I'm gonna fix it up for the older son Dean, he's had it for a few years now, and he's just as good as I am with the metal beasts –"

"Surely not," I denied. No one was as good as Bobby.

"No, he is, maybe better. He'd be fixin' it up himself, but they've got a hunt down in Cali they really need to get to. Some kind of sacrificing thing going on, I dunno. John never gives away much information." I knew this. John was more closed mouthed than a man who'd just eaten a whole tube of hemaroid cream. "Anyways, I got your bullets made. Can go down and get 'em, and see the car Dean left here. You ain't ever seen anything like it before, let me tell you."

I scoffed as he came out of the kitchen. No car'd get me in a panty twist these days; I'd seen them all before. I loved them all equally, except maybe…but, no, I'd never come across one of them the whole time I'd started to look. "Right," I said, and he passed me an already open bottle of ice cold beer, another held by his side. It numbed my fingers as soon as they slipped around the body, but I didn't care, bringing it to my lips and chugging down a huge swallow. I sighed with relief, the liquid immediately soothing my dry throat. "Thanks."

Bobby took a sip, watching me from under his thick brows. "How you been, girl? What've you been up to?"

I told him stories of my hunts in the south western states, as we went out the back towards his shed, Quincy chuffing behind us through the grass. Inside my eyes flicked immediately towards the hulking black shape at the back, then towards the weapons rack before I'd realised what I'd seen. The words died in my throat as I slowly turned back to the car.

Absently I heard Bobby chuckle as I shuffled towards the car in a kind of trance. "Is that a…?" I whispered, my eyes gliding over the sleek, powerful lines of the car.

"Yep."

"Chevy Impala, 1967," I moaned. "Oh god." I ran my fingers over the bonnet, eyes darting over every inch of it, trying to sink it all in. "I can't believe it. Bobby, I'll pay _anything _for this car. _Anything_. Just name your price." I knew he wouldn't but I still had to ask. This was my dream car, my _fantasy_ car. This car was the king of all cars, the best of the _best_.

"You're gonna get me in trouble talking like that Lauren," he laughed. "Dean'd have my hide if he knew I even let you touch it."

I sighed, then stepped back sadly. "Yeah, if I had a car like this, that's what I'd be like too. No one'd be able to drive it bar me."

Bobby opened his mouth to answer when Quincy started barking around his heels, snout turned back towards the house. Automatically we were in defence mode – some one – or something – was here, and Quincy didn't know them – which meant that they weren't welcome. I grabbed the pistol out of the waistband of my jeans and loaded it, stalking after Bobby, who'd grabbed his shotgun from the table. We strode around to the front of the house, guns held at our sides, ready to be swung up in a second's notice.

My heart was pounding in my throat, the familiar rush of adrenaline shooting through my veins and I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth, steadying myself. And then I saw her.

It was just a girl, who looked to be about my own age; flushed brown skin, straight, fine black hair down her back, arched eyebrows over dark drown eyes. They went even higher when they saw our guns, and then her lips twitched up into a fetchingly awkward smile, and she said, amused, "Oh, please. I'm not here on bad terms; can you just put those things down?" Her voice held a lilting accent I didn't recognise. It wasn't as broad as an Indian accent, yet nor was it fully American. Probably came from her background, whatever that was. "Bobby, isn't it? Caleb told you I'd be coming."

I glanced at Bobby, whose eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he nodded, hefting the shotgun up so it leant against his shoulder. He rocked his weight back onto one leg and looked the girl over, who, I noticed, tried not to squirm uncomfortably.

I hid my smile. I'd been subjected to the same treatment first time I'd come here – people needed to pass muster to even be let over his threshold. I'd been a little twerp back then, a total bitch – full of nervousness at meeting someone new, and pain and anger at the world. I didn't put up with anyone's shit, even that of old, cantankerous men who could kill me in about the time it took to blink. I'd said to him, hands on my hips, thrusting my face up as close as it could get his – I was barely five feet tall back then – 'you gotta problem grandpa?' His expression hadn't flickered, as he'd said 'not a one, pipsqueak. You coming in, or what?'. We'd been friends ever since.

"Sharika, right?" Bobby asked finally, and she nodded, shoulders loosening. "Alright then." He turned around and headed back to the garage, saying over his shoulder – "Make nice, Lauren. I've got work to do before I can spare time to talk."

I rolled my eyes, unloading my gun and shoving it back into my jeans. The bullets I stuffed into my pocket, before I held my hand out to the girl. "As you must've realised, I'm Lauren. I'd say 'nice to meet you', but I'm not sure yet, and I make it a habit not to lie to people that may be allies."

She smiled, and took my hand, shaking it up and down, once, firmly. Her fingers were long and slender, smooth, unlike my calloused own. Her nails were perfect, and I looked down at my own in amusement at the contrast. Most of my fingernails were either bitten off, broken, or jagged. The others ranged from short, to long, to dirty, clean and half clean, whereas hers were all clean and straight.

"Sharika," she reintroduced herself.

"So…why are you here?" I asked curiously, plonking myself down on the grass next to Quincy, and rubbing his ears. She followed suit.

"Trying to find out what's wrong with me, actually," she said, eying the dog nervously. She glanced into my eyes, and I tilted my head to the side, gesturing for her to go on, and crossing my legs. "Well, I can't really explain it. Would you like me to show you?"

"As long as it doesn't involve the loss of clothes, or limbs, I'm game," I responded, and smiled. She didn't. She gestured to a pebble on the ground, then picked it up. I knew she was making some kind of peace offering, trying to cement some sort of trust with me – that she normally wouldn't do a thing like she was about to – by the way she paused, flicking her eyes at me then back down at the pebble, and swallowed. I just waited. She could trust me or not, it didn't really matter in the long run. People in our world made it a habit not to give too much of themselves away.

If she did decide to give me even a little piece of herself, it would show how much she wanted to be here, how much she was willing to do to get whatever it was she wanted.

As I saw her come to her decision, I felt a little lift inside of myself. She had decided to trust me.

"Watch," she said simply, and then her eyes focused on the pebble, and as I stared, it started to rise into the air above her palm.

I blinked, but it was still there, poised above the brown skin of her hand, which she then dropped by her side. I reached my hand under the air beneath the pebble, then over it. It stayed where it was.

"Well…" I said, nodding and biting my lip, affecting a worried, scared look. Then I grinned at her. "Welcome to the Knights of the Freaky table."

When she asked me to go with her, to Pastor Jim's, to continue her search for knowledge of her 'affliction' two days later, I said yes. I wanted to see the old guy anyways; and I didn't have anything pressing that needed doing. From then on we travelled to all the men and women I'd ever come into contact with through my job, men and women who knew everything there was to know about the supernatural, at least to my mind. I made excuses to myself endlessly, every time she asked me to go with her somewhere new and I accepted.

By the time we found out first job outside of learning about her powers, two months later, and we came out of the fight flushed with victory, holding each other up and laughing with ease and companionship and release of tension, I already loved her as I would a sister.

PLEASE READ:

AN: In response to my DEFINITELY-NOT-FLAME by Maiafay: Thank you for the advice, and I am serious, not sarcastic. Yeah…the pov changing is a writing exercise, and I don't mean to sound bitchy or whatever…but the writing is for me, thus the you, me, she thing I have going. I like it, and it makes it different. The first chapter was written after the second one, I had the bar meeting going as their first, but then I started thinking… what if they'd met earlier? And I liked that idea, so I added it in after. It's rushed, messy and crap compared to the other chapters, and probably does scare a lot of readers off, seeing as how it's the first chapter and all. But it does its job, which is introduce the dynamics between the characters for me. I'm kind of new to sharing my writing, and I love feedback, which is where the whole 'holding chapters hostage' thing comes in. It was mean, wrong and probably…well; I have no idea…really awful to everyone who has been reading it. From hence onwards there will be no more of it. And I don't know if I would have stuck to my guns anyway…even if no one had reviewed I would have posted. Thanks to everyone who has though – I really, really appreciate you guys putting up with my evil, and obliging me. Thanks again to you, Maiafay. I do need honesty, even if it's a tad brutal and opinionated.

Anyways, here's chapter 8, and just because I feel like a whore, I'm adding in chapter 9 too. It'll put me behind, and I'll have to write even faster to make sure you guys aren't snapping at my heels, but take it as consolation and a 'sorry to everyone'. Okay. Peace. Thank you again, everyone.


	9. All The Things I Ever Wanted You To Know

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

9. All the Things I Ever Wanted You to Know

_Kinkler's Second Law:_

_All the easy problems have been solved._

_Present _

She stares at the woman who was the highest point in her life for six years, torn with a mixture of confused emotions that continuously threaten to impinge on her rationality. Her body is as stiff as an ironing board, and her lip is bleeding from her constant worrying at it with sharp, agitated teeth. It is the only physical sign of her discomfiture. The coppery taste hits her tongue as she tries to soothe the cut; it's precise, unmistakable tang beats off the emotions a little more, enough so she can do something other than breath and try not to cry, or scream. She's not sure which she wants to do more.

"Sharika," she whispers, hand clutching the older boy's t-shirt with one hand that can't seem to let go, white knuckled fist crumpling the plaid material, and he tries to remove her fist, but it's clutched in death's grip so he just leaves it there, glancing at the taller boy and shaking his head in confusion. The other hand reaches out to the other woman in what she refuses to see as supplication, palm up, fingers curled loosely inwards, as though she is trying to coax her in some way. "Why?"

This solitary question holds the pain of a year's worth of wondering and self-blame and hatred. Her best friend – or the person she'd believed to be her best friend at least – had left her, without a single word, a single backwards glance. How does that reflect on a person? How awful must she be for a person she'd lived with and loved and saved every day for six years to turn around and leave her in such an all-encompassing manner?

It had been her worst fear since the day she lost her family to her father's ghost. That everyone would leave her because she wasn't good enough, because it was her fault they'd died. She hadn't been strong enough, brave enough, smart enough to save them. Even her mother knew it; wanting to become a hunter wasn't the only reason she'd left home, after all, she could have started learning from there. No, it was the way her mother, her little brother, the rest of her family had treated her – as though she had been the one to kill them.

She'd tried to tell them what had really happened, that it wasn't her fault – but somewhere in her mind she knew that they thought she was crazy, psychotic even – that she had been the one that had killed them. She'd heard her mother on the phone to a mental institution on the other side of the country the day before she'd left. The worst bit was, staying there, with their constant contempt and fear and misunderstanding made her start to wonder if she really was crazy, if it had just been a delusion of her mind. But she'd clung to the image of John – he'd been real, he'd been there, she had his number to prove it.

She'd never looked back after the day she'd left on a southbound train, clothes and her daddy's gun in a duffle bag on her back, mobile phone and John's number clasped in her hand.

But when Sharika had left her she revisited every memory of the death of her innocence. She'd crawled into the motel bed and stayed there for three days, not moving, not sleeping, not eating or drinking. The flashbacks had run through her mind as she waited with a quickly withering hope that Sharika would come back.

The motel manager knocking on the door had brought her out of her stupor, and from then on she'd refused to trust anyone, hadn't even cared about her own wellbeing. What was there to live for after all? Besides killing, and killing, and ridding the world of all the evil she possibly could. That was all there was until Sam and Dean had come along, and woken her up a little more each day.

Now that Sharika was back, was she just going to let her into her life again, give her that kind of power over her, so that if she left she'd be left in that state again? Be in that permanent, numb darkness?

How could she bear it? How could she bear to ever go back there?

The dark woman was telling her much she loved her, how much she'd missed her, and all her reasons for leaving. Something about protecting Lauren, something about trying to save her from getting killed.

And the rage started to settle over her, a blood red curtain.

"Why the hell does no one think I can take care of myself?" she exclaims, hands clutching in her hair, tears stinging her eyelids, as though little men with red-hot pokers were stabbing the backs of her eyeballs. "Why can't you ever trust me? I would rather be dead than have to be looked after like that. It's the worst kind of patronising. You actually think you're doing it for my own benefit. No one trusts me to make my own decisions." She's whispering now, voice hoarse with repressed feeling. "I loved you Sharika, but you _left_ me. You _left me_, without even telling me why, or asking me what I thought about it. You had all the control over my choice; you didn't even consider how I felt about it. How can I ever forgive that?"

"Would you have let me leave, if I had told you everything?" the dark woman asks, face expressionless. Anyone who didn't know her would think she felt nothing, that she was unaffected by the woman's tears and questions and accusations. But the woman knows how tightly her reins are held, how close she clutches her emotions to herself, so no one can view her weaknesses, her vulnerability. It still hurts though, that she can seem so composed and together in the face of the woman's obvious breakdown, obvious hurt and distress.

This was never the way she thought it would be; never the way she had envisioned it. Then again, she'd never known what to expect – she'd never even known if she would see her again. But this quiet, calm façade just makes her ache more with the gaping hole between them, and fuels the fire of her anger. Does she really feel so little? Did she ever care at all?

The woman sees the sheen in her brown, painstakingly truthful eyes, and knows. It rips the truth from her bleeding mouth. Or half truth at least – as much as she can possibly bear to reveal.

"Hell no. I love – I loved you too much. If you got hurt – or killed – how would I ever have forgiven myself? For fuck's sake, you were my best friend Sharika. _My best friend _didn't trust me to make the best decision concerning my own safety, as though I was a child. How is that supposed to make me feel?"

"Lauren, it wasn't like that, I swear. Can we talk, please? Alone?"

The first woman's mouth parts, just breath escaping. How is she supposed to react? One side wants to accept, while the other screams vehemently, _hell no. Do you want to be used and discarded again, like a cheap condom?_ _You'd be sure to break the second time around. _

"Look," the until then silent man, the older one, with the glittering, furious green eyes, says. He's staring at the dark woman with an intensity of anger the first woman had only ever seen when she looked in the mirror. "You should leave. Don't you think you've hurt her enough?"

The dark woman opens her mouth, the other woman is too stunned, and too numb and drained to say anything, as she nods and says – voice suddenly and inexplicably husky – "Perhaps you're right. Another time then. But Lauren – know this. I only did what I did to protect you."

And then she turned and walked away.

000

The woman lies on the lumpy, old motel bed, eyes staring unseeingly, unerringly at the cracked and peeling paint of the ceiling. The boys had brought her here, laying her down on the bed, removing her of her jacket and shoes, telling her to sleep, that they'd talk in the morning, before they left again.

Saving the world didn't wait for any kind of personal crisis, after all.

She hasn't cried, although some corner of her mind insistently argues with her that she should, that repressing it isn't healthy. But then, since when has she ever acted according to what is healthy, or good for her? Her own mind answers this silent, rhetorical question. Not since she was twenty two, full and fresh and feeling invincible, like nothing in the world could bring her down. No demon, no ghost, no nothing.

Her lip is still bleeding, and she's biting the inside of it now, teeth clenched tightly on the soft inner skin of her lower lip, so as not to harm the outside any further. Her lips always end up bleeding for some reason – the stupid, useless things. She swallows, trying to do the same with the emotions, and it almost works – she's had far too much practice. The coppery taste of blood hits the back of her tongue again, and she closes her eyes against the images of the familiar, dark face that threaten to swamp her. Wide brown eyes, expressing every emotion that her face could not.

She blinks the pictures clear, and glances to the right, where the cheap alarm clock is set up. Two thirty four in the morning, read the blinking red numbers of the digital clock. She wonders when the boys will be back.

She knew how uncomfortable they had been with her steadfast silence, her impregnable shield as they'd driven here. They'd had to pick her up to put her in the Impala in the first place. They had to pick her up again to get her out of it, and onto the bed. She'd been barely there at all – a breathing, not even half alive creature.

How did they see her now? She didn't want this to change their opinion on her – she didn't want them to see her as weak, vulnerable – she didn't want to make herself into something they'd need to baby, or worse, leave. How did this change the way they viewed her? They'd had to save her practically, from the situation, just like they had to save her from practically every hunt they went on. Sure, she helped them, whatever, but was it worth the constant worrying they had to do about her? About her getting into trouble, and screwing up, and wrecking everything they'd worked so hard for? She was a burden, she wasn't worth the effort – no wonder Sharika had left her in the first place, no wonder –

Her mind screams at her to stop, that these are the exact thoughts that she shouldn't be thinking. This self pity and deprecation is her worst enemy, the selfishness wasn't her. She wouldn't allow it to be. She couldn't even stand her own attention directed onto herself. She had to refocus these feelings, she had to stop thinking about herself, stop thinking about her own problems. There were plenty of people out there worse off than she was. The children for instance, that they'd originally come to this town for. Until –

She turns her face into the pillow, jaw clenched so tightly it aches, and tries to hold back everything. _Stop – just don't_, is the mantra repeated over and over in her head. _Put your efforts into something _useful_ for once. Stop thinking about HER. _

By now she was starting to wake up from this self imposed, instinctively defensive blockade. She knew it had been to protect her from her emotions, which otherwise would have left her in the state she'd first been in when Sharika had left her.

She sits up in the bed, deliberately shakes herself all over, as though waking up from a deep, deep sleep. _Push it all aside, move on_, are her thoughts as she stands up and makes her calm, sedate way to the bathroom. If she's shaking a little, there's no one there to see it. _Suck it up._

When the boys come in an hour later, she is asleep on one of the beds, in her pyjamas, papers containing information on every kind of supernatural entity that affected children in the way this one did spread on the covers around her, along with small and large scale maps tracking the pattern of houses the thing had attacked, possible places it could be striking from marked with red circles and lines, and similar patterns in different towns and in different years written in her scribbled, messy shorthand lie by her hand.

In the morning she asks about what they'd done the previous night, how it had gone, as though she is completely normal and nothing had happened out of the ordinary to her the night before. She knew what they'd been doing; they'd hit a veritable goldmine of information before they'd come out of the bar to find her 'being attacked' by the other woman. They'd followed the lead up last night, going to the hospital and posing as paediatricians so they could gain access to the afflicted children. Apparently they'd seen something similar in another hunt; it had been a Shtriga, a very rare spirit that sucked the life force out of children. She'd been trying to determine if it could be the same thing before she fell asleep.

The boys glanced at each other, realising something was horribly wrong, but not knowing what to do about it. So they did what they did best, repress, and wait for a chance to bring it up again.

000

Sunset, two days later; they're at the lair of the beast. They'd tracked it here the previous day, some kind of savage, supernatural bear that came into children's dreams and stole their consciousness. They had to kill it to save the children's lives – they were plunged into comas after the bear left them, until their bodies finally gave up the fight. They had some kind of idea that if they killed it, the children's spirits, or whatever it was the bear collected that put the kids in that state, would be set free.

The cave it lived in was up in the thickly forested mountain country around the town; they'd had to leave the Impala a while back and travel on foot, because it was rumoured that the area was prone to _real_ grizzly bears, and they didn't want to run the risk of attracting one. It was winter, so most of them would be hibernating, but you could never be too precautious. The older boy had been threatening the other two with hot pokers and other such complimentary amenities for an hour or more if anything happened to his precious vehicle, when the taller one halted and pointed out the black opening in the rock face.

They pulled to a stop just outside the lair, and started arming themselves in silence. The hunters were equipped with the weapons that were reported to kill it – silver bullets inscribed with holy signs, made hastily that morning – which were loaded into shotguns with the careless ease of long practice, checked and rechecked, as they had all been taught. A final glance at each other sent them inside the cave, eyes scouring the ground and the rest of the terrain for anything that may give away their positions, or alert it to their presence.

The woman's hands clutch her shotgun with white knuckles, fingers slick against the barrel as her mind continuously jumps back and forth to the possibility of Sharika being here, she's just as good as they were at tracking after all; it was plausible.

The boys had asked her about the woman – the taller one had brought it up just yesterday, eyes earnest and urging her to open up all of herself to their blue green scrutiny. She was used to this look from him – just not at it being directed at her instead of at his brother. His brother who had refused to back down either, both of them using all the weapons in their considerable arsenal to draw her out. She'd gotten so close to confessing; but the fact that they were treating her half like a suspect, half like a victim had made her waive all the questions off with a 'she's the past', before twitching the conversation back to the hunt again and refusing to budge from it.

Due to her inattention, her booted toe knocks a rock and it jumps forwards half an inch, even this shift evoking a sharp, scuffling sound that reverberates on the surrounding rock walls. All three of the hunters freeze, waiting to see – to sense – any change in the immediate vicinity. But nothing happens, and the males shoot her an antagonised glare each, the older one asking with his eyes for her to keep her mind on the task at hand. She can almost hear the smart alec comment attached, probably something like, 'unless you'd like to be bear fodder – we could use the distraction'. It's just like him.

She looks down again, mind strictly focused on the ground, on the hunt. She cannot afford any mistakes. Besides, thinking about the other woman serves no purpose but to make her angry again; and anyway, she might have already skipped town.

She was good at that.

They found the bear without another glitch – it was sleeping by a large rock pile in the back of the cave, snoring gently, sides rising and falling with heaving breaths. All three hunters stopped at once, and aimed with their shotguns, no hesitation marring their perfect individual coordination, nor their collective synchronisation.

But none of them shot at it.

"This just seems…off," the woman whispered finally, after they'd been standing there, not moving for a whole minute. Her position was in the middle of the two men, gun cocked, one hand holding up the barrel, the other with one finger poised to squeeze the trigger. She didn't move from it as she spoke, one foot forwards, the other back to balance her weight. The boys glanced at her for a millisecond, before training their eyes back on the beast. The taller one shifted his weight, then cocked his head to the side, face showing the fact that his mind was running through all the possibilities as his eyebrows scrunched a little and his hair swung forwards.

"Dean –"

It came tearing out of the physical bear's shadow, a being of darkness and seemingly non-corporeal; its shape that of a grizzly on its back legs, claws forwards, swinging. Three guns were swung immediately to aim at it, bullets shooting forwards and out – but it was quicker and more agile than its worldly counterpart – all three of their accurate reflex actions missed it, and the older boy was hit across his chest, sending him back against the solid rock wall, his form slumping as his skull cracked against it, hard.

His name is ripped from their mouths before their assault on the shadow bear is doubled; they dodge its claws and shoot, the tall boy rolls to escape a particularly close call, while the female shoots at it again from in a position in front of the corporeal bear – and the bullets finally connect. The dark shadow jerks back from the blow in its chest, and a grating scream sounds throughout the cave, echoing until the woman drops her gun to cover her ears from the pain it evokes.

She hunches forwards, and when she looks up again finally, it is only to see the other woman standing in front of her with a gun aimed directly at her.

As the woman stares at the instrument, and the person holding it, that she realises are the last things she will ever see, her thoughts are simply, 'I wish she'd given me time to forgive her'. Time freezes for an infinitesimal moment where sight tunnels onto the things that signal her destruction; the round mouth of the gun, the dark hand clutching it, the brown eyes that look…over her shoulder? Our woman turns and looks behind her, to see the real bear, its form teetering, a hole in its head gaping and blood starting to fall and soak into its thick, rough brown fur.

The crash as the real bear the shadow bear was using as cover falls back onto the ground shakes the cave, the vibrations rocking all that were standing on their feet.

The woman looks back at the other, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. "You…?" she whispers, all at once dealing with being relieved that she is not going to die this night, at the claw of a shadow bear, nor the hand of her ex-best friend, nor at the bite of a real grizzly, shocked at the sight of the other woman right in front of her again so soon and the turn of events, the fluctuations in her adrenaline supply, and a steadily rising anger and feeling of helplessness. "Right." She does what she does best, and ignores the situation at hand. Turning away from the other woman she says, "Sam, are we going now?"

The taller boy glances at her from where he crouches, checking the vitals of his brother, and then at the other woman before returning his eyes to her. The blue green orbs fill with understanding and she feels her walls against the issue crumble a little, before she pastes a smile on, cocking her head to the side and silently begs him not to ask. She's grappling with the fraying edges of her temper as it is. "Just give me a second to wake Dean up."

She nods, and starts checking her gun for signs of anything – anything to take her mind off Sharika. Hard, considering she was so close and starting to chafe at the lack of attention. Or at least lack of gratitude.

It isn't that she is ungrateful, she just doesn't like how it has been pretty much proven that she needs protecting, that she can't look after herself. Once again. It's the one thing that puts her back up more than anything. Because she knows that it had to be one of the deciding factors in her being left in the first place – her eternal 'protect me, I'm so weak' vibe. Dean and Sam felt it. Sharika had always felt it. It was as though she were a toddler that everyone mothered.

She hated it. And this killing of the bear she hadn't even noticed – how the hell can you not notice a rearing, fucking _grizzly bear_ right behind you?! – it was just bordering on the last straw.

"So that's it?" she hears from behind her, the numb, quiet tone making her stiffen even further. "I saved your _life_."

The last straw snapped.

She turned around, and in one smooth motion, dealt the other woman a savage, powerful uppercut to her jaw. The woman stumbled backwards one step, then raised a hand to the offended area, staring at her with shocked brown eyes. She'd dropped back into a defensive pose, fists lifted to protect her face, stance balanced and even, that of a confident fighter. Her golden green eyes were wide and shivered with tears that threatened to fall – but she held them back with a strength that had tided her over in all the years since her father had died and she'd started on this path, mouth tight and jawbone tense with the restraint it took.

"Come on!" she growled, panting slightly. Her emotions were completely out of control; she didn't care what happened anymore she just needed to get them _out_. They'd been contained within her for a year, and now they'd been rubbed raw and bloody by Sharika's presence for the past few days. They needed a release – and right now anger and violence were the only options open to her. "Hit me back. Hit me _back_!"

"No."

She swung again, her attempt to get her anger out in a fair manner, where she was equally paid out, there was no guilt or regret and they wouldn't even have to talk about it was closed to her now – _so_ _fuck it all_. Her punch was blocked by a trained wrist action that sent it over her opponents shoulder – and then the fight started for real. Instincts and knowledge of each other's bodies kept them evenly matched on one level, but the blonde woman had one up over the other – she'd been travelling with the Winchesters, had learnt new things, so on occasion she actually connected. They moved like lightning, one move flowing to the next in an effortless, endless cycle of attack and defence, attack and defence. She struck again and again, pushing forwards relentless, tireless, fury driven, and her punches, kicks, and other improvisations were blocked sporadically by an equally unyielding adversary.

The other woman refused to attack – and when the tall boy made a move to intervene, she told him in a quiet, breathless, dead voice to stay back. That she deserved it. And the older boy's quiet moaning kept him at his brother's side.

At this, the acceptance, the dam broke. Tears started to fall down the woman's cheeks, and her flurry of attacks grew more and more heated and fervent and uncoordinated and messy and desperate; but the other woman never took advantage, never pressed an offensive. She just blocked and blocked, until the first woman was sobbing at a standstill, shoulders shaking, tears running down in rivulets of shame and anger and frustration and sadness and need.

The dark woman stood in front of her, her uncomfortable approach to touch restricting her from comforting her friend in any possible way. She'd always been helpless at stuff like that.

Suddenly, the blonde woman stepped over the invisible line drawn between their bodies, and threw her arms around the dark woman's shoulders, sobbing into her neck, and clutching her as tightly as she possibly could, as though she'd never be let go again. The dark woman froze.

After a second, the woman growled into her shoulder, laughter hidden beneath all the other layers, "_Now_ would be a good time to hug me back, Sharika."

So she did.

AN: Hope this chapter isn't too out there, or anything. And I hope you guys enjoyed it. I don't know when the next update will be, I'm going away for Christmas, and they don't have Microsoft word. Possibly the weirdest thing ever. If I can squeeze in chapter 10 before I leave, I will, but until then, see you guys!


	10. If You're By My Side

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

10. If You're By My Side

_Lord, defend me from my friends; I can account for my enemies._

_-- Charles D'Hericault_

Can you say awkward? Coming back from that cave with the shadow bear in the mountain…yeah. That was beyond it. It was so far beyond it, it was nowhere in the realm of comfortable's second cousin twice removed on the maternal grandmother's half brother's son's girlfriend's stepmother's uncle's side.

Sam was driving, Sharika was pressed against the glass of the passenger's side door and window, and Dean's head was in my lap. You'd expect me to be ecstatic over this position under normal circumstances – unfortunately, yeah, not so normal. He was still kind of out of it. By kind of, I mean as far as he could tell, the ceiling of the Impala had been painted purple and decorated with flickering white lights. The idiot had a lump on the back of his skull the size of my fist, and I knew that I wasn't allowed to let him go to sleep, no matter how tired or sore he said he was. I knew it even before Sam and Sharika kept reiterating it continuously, until they realised that they were both saying the same thing and dropped off into the silence that now filled the car.

I didn't know how to break it at all – or if I want to. I mean, that back there, trying to murder Sharika, and then ending up hugging her and crying, which I hadn't been able to do since…god knows when…well, it was the first step along the huge path towards regaining our friendship. It may never be the same between us again, though. I wouldn't trust her for a hell of a long time yet, but I guess that's just expected. You can't just abandon a person, and then expect to settle back into their lives like you'd never been gone.

Make no mistake, however, she _was_ going to be coming back into my life – I'd realised tonight that there was no way in hell she was getting away again. You can't just _forget_ about six years of friendship and trust and love, no matter how hard you might try. She was going to come along with us. Us being me and the Winchester boys. Sharika was another one of John Winchester's disciples, and she had almost as much respect and hero worship for him as I did, so she may just agree on that basis alone.

See, I hadn't actually _told_ her she was coming with us, yet.

I glanced up from eyeballing Dean's forehead to where she was sitting, her whole body angled away from Sam, cheek pressed against the window glass, knuckles white on the hands that gripped her seatbelt where it lay across her chest. Her hair was coming out of its habitual black, simple ponytail at the back of her neck, kinks forming around it. Her shoulders were tense and straight beneath her black sweatshirt, and I could practically feel the anxiety coming off her in waves. She didn't know how to react to the situation, same as me. In the car with two strange men who she only knows through rumour and a person who she probably thinks hates her. Actually, it was worse for her than for me. At least I know I have Sam and (um…hopefully) Dean on my side – and know them somewhat, as people. Sharika, well, she had no one. The most she had was a slim – very slim, in her mind – chance of continuing our friendship. This quiet, frozen countenance was how she reacted to awkward, and potentially threatening situations like this. If it were me, I know I'd be babbling about something completely and utterly confusing, and possibly insane sounding, a grin pulled tight across my face to show too much teeth, and I might even be bouncing. It was all to get rid of my nervous energy – because when that dropped off, I could, on occasion, fake normalcy enough to be believable.

Sam…well, Sammy wasn't handling the silence any better than we were. I think he may even be on the edge of turning some of Dean's music on. And that – well… it would be out of character to say the least. He was driving, hands deliberately not clenched tightly on the wheel. But I could see the stiffness in his arm and shoulder muscles, the vein – mostly covered by the thick chestnut hair that hit his lapel – that was throbbing in his neck. All classical Sam signs of '_I have an issue, but I'm repressing, repressing, repressing_'. Usually Sam liked to over share, much to both mine and Dean's continual annoyance. People think he's quiet, and tends to hold things in – but the only time he exercises this propensity is when there are pressing issues in his head that he hasn't been able to work out yet in solitude. He tells Dean everything, and he tells me a hell of a lot more than he probably should. Like the Jessica and Mom and demon thing. I could have gone on quite happily, and oblivious, not knowing about that. But then one day he just looked at Dean, who tried to telepathically send him a message I intercepted as '_don't you do it – fuck Sammy don't!',_ and then he'd turned to me and said, "A demon killed my mother and my girlfriend." The only thing I'd been able to say, my mind arrowing into a dark place filled with thoughts of Sharika, and hate and quiet, was, "You're not the only one. Pass the salt." (That time we were at dinner, not on a hunt.) But right now, the presence of Sharika in the car must be putting him off. The way he kept taking his big, blue green eyes off the road to glance in her direction kind of gave this away. Every time he did, his fingers would strangle the steering wheel, before he made a conscious effort to release the pressure. I wondered what that was about – even I wasn't this wound up over Shar.

I took my mind off the two of them and their issues to study the boy in my lap. Dean's eyes were drifting shut again, and to wake him up I '_accidentally'_ jiggled my leg. He groaned, and I felt a little guilty, but no matter how he complained, and whined and tried to give me upside down puppy dog eyes, I couldn't let him fall asleep. Chances were he had a concussion, and we didn't know how bad it was yet. Sleeping with concussions, though usually believed to be a bad thing, is alright for mild ones. But he had a pretty bad collision with that wall, so who knew what shape his head was in right now? It was better to be cautious; after all if we let him sleep he might never wake up. He'd vomited just as Sam and I'd gotten him out of the cave, and his legs had been barely able to support him, plus he couldn't remember anything about the accident itself and kept asking us about it.

"What happened?" Dean asked groggily, for about the tenth time in thirteen minutes. Yes, I have been counting. This loss of short term memory, and repeating something over and over, despite being told the answer each time is known as perseverating. Don't ask me how I know – I retain the weirdest bits of information. The point is – it was making me nervous, and if I hadn't known that we had frozen peas in the freezer at the motel, I would have ordered Sam to take us to the hospital. Despite the fact that it looked really bad, and he had vomited, etcetera – nausea, and perseverating, and all the other symptoms were common, and accepted as those that signalled only a mild concussion. Sam and I knew how to deal with it, after all, we'd seen far too many, and besides, the Winchesters practically had a hospital phobia. It's just that head injuries always make me nervous, because the brain is such a delicate thing – who knows what might be going on beneath the surface?

While thinking this I was staring at the middle of Dean's brow, as though my eyes could bore all the way through his skin, flesh and bone into the grey matter beneath it all. _What was going on in there? Was he okay? Was he really badly hurt? What if he –_

"Lauren?" Dean muttered, hazel green eyes staring up at me dazedly. "What?"

"You've such pretty eyes!" I said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. I couldn't let him know I was worried about him. It'd probably be the one thing he retained through to the morning, knowing my luck.

Besides, how _dare_ he make me worry about him? Could he _be_ any slower dodging that shadow bear? Even Sam did better, and we know what an uncoordinated stork he can be –

"Men don't have pretty eyes," Dean grunted, and lifted a hand to the side of his head. I pushed it away and smiled. He'd always been sensitive about his eyes; I knew this because I'd made a passing comment one time about wishing I had his eyelashes. It had made him self conscious for a week, though he did a credible of job of hiding it. I kept seeing him stare into the rear view mirror, and passing shop windows, as if to check that he wasn't growing breasts or something. Okay…maybe he wasn't self-conscious about his eyes…I may have mentioned that he was getting wrinkles. He wasn't, but we do what we must…and torturing Dean is so much _fun_.

"Fine, you have such _manly_ green eyes," I acquiesced, just as we pulled to a stop outside of the motel we were staying at. _The Flamingo_, I made out from the neon sign above our heads that was on the blink, to say the least (three of the letters had blown out), as Sam and I helped Dean into our room, Sharika locking up the Impala and following close behind us, still quiet and tense. She was walking stiffly, as someone does when they have back problems, or are really preoccupied. _I wonder where she's staying…what motel, that is. Not here, I would have seen her. So why – oh. God…I know why she's not skipping out on her merry way – and it's not concern over Deanie Boy's safety. _

Inside, Sam and I got Dean comfortable as he muttered about the purple coloured ceiling, his head hurting and that we should stop babying him, he was fine. He was always like this when he was hurt, trying to act as though it were nothing, trying to take care of it all himself. I found it so exasperatingly, annoyingly endearing that I could slap myself most days. Sharika fetched the peas, and Sam stripped off Dean's shirt and passed it to me. Despite myself, I couldn't help but notice the glorious peach skin pulled smoothly and precisely over hard muscles. It has to be a sin for someone to be allowed to look that good. With my fingers itching to touch, and hoping the other two hadn't noticed my lapse, I quickly wrapped the peas in it and passed it to Dean so he could rest it against his goose-egg.

With Sam watching over him, Sharika gestured at me to join her outside, and left the dingy motel room.

I didn't really want to go outside with her – I knew exactly where it was leading. Emotional train wrecks and big blubbering sessions and a whole lot of self hate and blame and crap that I just really didn't want to have to deal with right now. I was feeling way too messy inside to be able to cope with any new information – especially something as vital towards making my final decision – as this was. The reason she'd left me in the first place. The thing that had occupied the back of my mind for a year. I really didn't –

Besides, what about Dean? As selfish and self-serving and cowardly as it was (I'd be dodging Sharika and our issues), I wanted to stay with him. I had the most unbearably maternal instinct beating me over the head with a club, nagging me to get back there and ask him if he needed anything, anything at all to make him more comfortable. Chicken soup? Cold compresses? Foot massages? Wild sex containing all of the above items and actions? Okay, the might not make _him_ feel all that much better – but me on the other hand…

_I don't want to go – what if she – what will she – and Dean – and how will I – will she say – what if she says – shut up, Lauren. _

I swallowed all my misgivings, following Sharika outside, and, with a last smile at Sam, who was eyeing me with the worried look he always reserved for victims of supernatural trauma, I closed the door again.

"Lauren," she said, turning to me, brown eyes the only thing expressing her emotions in her face – the rest of it was straight and composed, as though she felt nothing. Her eyes though – big, liquidising. It scared me. The last time she'd looked this close to crying had been when she was telling me what had happened to her parents on her thirteenth birthday. "I want to tell you –"

"Why?" She nodded, and I looked straight back into her eyes. "Don't."

"But –"

"Look, Sharika," I said, shaking my head, closing my eyes and turning away, trying to process everything that was scrambling itself inside my head. I bit my lip, eyes searching the darkness for answers. The remaining, working pink lights of _The Flamingo_ motel sign cast a pink glow over the parking lot, illuminating the broken bottles and discarded cigarettes. In spite of myself, I found a certain symbolism in the dirty, deserted area. "I know before, when I attacked you in the parking lot I wanted to know why, but…" I paused, and cleared my throat, turning back to her. I felt so awkward, and not at all sure I was doing the right thing. I was curious – _that's got to be the fucking understatement of the year _– about why she'd left, but… "I just don't think I should know yet. I don't – I don't think I'm quite ready."

"But if we're ever going to be friends again – how –"

"Sharika, you know you're coming with us," I said, as a statement, not a question. She wasn't _allowed_ to refuse. She owed me. If she tried to leave, to go again, and couldn't be bothered to comply with my wishes for once, to do this one thing for me – well, it meant I could finally move on. I'd have closure; I'd know our friendship was over for good. One less thing to worry about.

"They hate me," she replied flatly. I knew she meant Sam and Dean. And that she was probably right.

"Yeah, because they don't know you," I tried to reassure both of us. I wondered how the boys would react. I really had no idea – those two constantly surprise me. But then… Dean – well, Dean'd probably give me a straight out no, going on about extra burdens, past crimes, distractions… Sam might be on my side, if I play the '_pity me, I'm emotionally scarred and vulnerable_' card right. He was a sucker for getting people to work their feelings out, and express themselves. If I said I needed Sharika around so I could sort myself out… he might just cave for me. Either way… I bet I could persuade them…somehow… "All they know is how I reacted to you, and it wasn't exactly inspiring…they just don't know what to think. But you have to come. Sharika – you know – I want to – you know?" At that the words choked and strangled themselves in my mouth just as they always did when I began to take a stroll in the neighbourhood of emotional vulnerability. As a defence mechanism I suppose, against leaving myself exposed to hurt and anyone that might take advantage of it. My pride wouldn't allow me to spill anymore of my emotions or secrets. It wouldn't let me open up, and that was just fine right now. I just hoped she understood.

"Me too Lauren. I just want you to know that there was a reason. And when you're ready…" she gave me an earnest look. She was anxious for me to give her a second chance, and I really wanted to. I understood that leaving me wasn't her first choice. Like it helped _now_. But it was still nice to think that maybe the friendship hadn't all been one sided. Even if I didn't know the reason, it must have been a pretty good one. Hopefully. If it was something I'd done, or…well. This is why I had to wait. I may never be ready to know that it had originally been all my fault she'd left.

"As long as you're here, with me, I think we can work this out," I said, and then shifted my gaze away from her face. I was feeling uncomfortable now, all the soul bearing, angst, etcetera. My skin was prickling, felt tight and stretched, like there wasn't enough to cover everything I was feeling. Along with this sensation, I realised that my old habit had come back – scrunching my shoulders up near my ears, as though I were trying to shrink from anyone's notice. Deliberately I lowered them and glanced back over at Sharika.

_She hasn't changed at_,I thought to myself absently, studying the way her face was held, and scrunched and contorted into the face she made when she was holding something in that was really getting to her. _I can still read her every thought on her face._ Right now, she really wanted to pressure me, wanted to spill all the things that I'd asked her to keep to herself. I knew she was obsessing about it – she was that kind of person. She'd sit there for minutes, perhaps even hours after something had happened, or you'd said something, and be thinking about it the whole time, while you thought she was over it. And then when she can't stand it anymore she'll blurt it out. I used to get really confused sometimes; mostly it had amused me.

Right now I just hoped she could keep it in until I was ready.

"Right," I nodded, and smiled. _Change the topic, CHANGE IT. _"So, what do you think of my baggage?"

"I've seen better," she said, and laughed. _Liar. I saw you checking out Sammy's ass. _"I was just going to ask you where you picked them up." Her eyes shifted momentarily from my face – so quickly that I wasn't even sure I'd seen it – that it hadn't been a figment of my overactive imagination, and need to analyse her every single action and movement tonight. Besides, what would it even mean, if it had happened? That she was lying to me? Why would she? What would there be _to_ lie about?

"Around. They were just kind of drawn to me. Winchester bees to my honey." Ah, if only. If only. _I wonder if Dean's alright…_

"You know how wrong that sounds, right?" I grinned as she gave me one of her infamous arch looks. Both of our sets of emotions were tightly reined now, her face composed again, my twitching smile and raised eyebrow in place. We could move on to making strange comments. "I can't believe you've been travelling with the _Winchesters._" The wonder in her voice made me laugh on the inside. She'd never heard Sam singing Evanescence songs in the shower, when he thought Dean and I were out getting coffee – nor has she had to put up with one of Dean's bastardly black moods. She hadn't had to live with the boys and their habits for three months. So, I could _kind of_ understand why her eyes were star struck, almost as if she'd just seen Jared Padalecki buying soap, or something. (We _had_ been teenagers at one time, and Jared Padalecki had been her celebrity crush. Mine was Jensen Ackles. God – he still was, really. _So hot._) After all, after I'd gotten over my drunken induced pride and anger that John was treating me in such a fashion as to send his whipping boys to look after me…I was kind of '_omgtheWINCHESTERS_!!!!!!' too.

"I still can't, and I've been travelling with them for…how long now? Three months or so. They're more annoying than I thought they would be. Remind me of you, at least Sammy does. Speaking of Sammy…"

AN: One of my betas (my pushy, _post-it-post-it-damn-you!_ one) has decided that from now on I post every Sunday, unless something has come up; eg my Christmas trip where there is no Microsoft word. So here – my posting, on a Sunday, just as we 'agreed'. (coughwasforcedcough) I hope you like it, as always. And I hope for more reviews to show me how much you guys care. :D Okay. Thanks again.


	11. A Kind Of Aggression With Himself

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

11. A Kind of Aggression with Himself

_Anyone can become angry – that is easy, but to be angry with the right person at the right time, and for the right purpose and in the right way – that is not within everyone's power and that is not easy._

"So…" she says the next morning, watching the boys pack away all their belongings into the huge, well worn duffle bags they take everywhere. She'd completed her packing the previous night.

They are a study in contrast; the tall boy places his clothes into the bag with a quiet, slow efficiency and precision, every item of clothing folded, every toiletry carefully packed in zip lock bags in order to prevent spills and placed the right way up. All his belongings are in neat piles on the bed around his duffle bag, and he stands in front of it, still but for the ritual of bend and pick up item, straighten, hold open duffle bag, and slip item inside, bend and pick up item, straighten, hold open duffle bag, and slip item inside. The bag is sectioned off into four sections – short shirts, long shirts, jeans, and jackets and underwear. The toiletry gets packed on top of the clothes and into the sides. Everything always fits, without him needing to strain the zipper.

The older boy however, simply stuffs all of his items into the duffle bag; clothes are crumpled and screwed up into clean and dirty balls – there is no difference in how the clothes are treated – both dirty and clean items are shoved in on top of and surrounding each other into the bag. He's rushing around the room, reciting things he thinks he's forgotten to himself – "…toothbrush, razor, blue shirt, blue _shirt_…" – chucking the item onto the bed when he's found it, before continuing his search for any others that dare to elude him. Toiletries are hurled amidst the rest of the things that go into the bag; they hide in convenient valleys and folds of material. A tube of toothpaste is thrown on top of jeans, cap still off. It receives more and more pressure placed on it as he piles on more and more clothes, a can of shaving cream, its tip still smeared with foam, is tossed into the duffle as well. When he finally thinks he has everything he squishes the clothes down flat, and starts pulling at the closing flap, trying to shut the duffle. His possessions are coming out of the top of the bag.

"Mmm?" Sam mutters, smoothing creases out of the brown shirt he's holding before putting it into the bag and smoothing it out again, so it lies perfectly. The older boy ignores her, struggling with the bag, pulling and muttering to himself.

"Sharika's coming travelling with us. Okay, good, now that's sorted I've gotta –"

"No," Dean says, without stopping in his straining and tugging. Sam doesn't even glance at her, in the middle of his ritual. She waits, eyebrows raised for something, _anything_ else. _Some_ kind of reaction. Nothing, bar the continuation of the boys' packing, is forthcoming. She should really be used to it by now – it's like they expect their word to be law and that nothing else needed to be said after they've passed their verdict. Mostly Dean did it, but Sam definitely had his moments. Put simply, it pissed the crap out of her. Half of the time she was conversing with the Winchesters strangulation scenes were dancing like fairytale happy endings in the back of her head. The boy's often wondered at that strange smile she wore when they were speaking to her in angry tones – but they'd never know the truth.

"_No_? I'm sorry; I don't believe I gave you any choice in the matter." _So_, she thinks nastily to herself, eyes narrowing, shoulders squaring and jaw jutting out, a stubborn line, _you_ _can be domineering? Well, guess who else can play that game Dean?_ She knows that she's right, that she owes it to herself to see where this thing with Sharika was going. Add in a pinch of bitchy, a dash of self-righteous anger, and a healthy splash of the fact that she knows on one hand, whatever they have to say would probably be at least half true. She worries, somewhere in the forefront of her mind, the part that isn't dealing with how to get the boys to agree with her, whether or not Sharika will just leave her high and dry again. Never a word said, never a sign as to the why or the when. She balks at putting herself on the line like that, ever again – but if that's what it's going to take, then damn all the consequences. Do what you like, and hack the consequences, isn't that what she lives by? She was not the type to hide behind her fears, nor let them consume her. Then again, on the other hand she's completely denying it – the fact that they may actually be right. She doesn't want to let that take her over. Combine all these elements together and you have a party! "It was a statement, _not_ a question –"

"So is what _I _said. She _is not _coming with us." Dean finally stops pulling at the zipper, which isn't even halfway around, and looks at her, his face completely expressionless. She eyes him almost nervously, making sure that no such emotion shows on her face, or in her posture. His countenance speaks of resolve and restraint, and the last time she saw him like that he was in the process of beating up that grope-y guy, who was mauling her. She doesn't understand his animosity towards the dark woman – she has done _him_ no harm, in fact, she had saved their asses – including his unconscious one – from the real grizzly bear just last night. The woman hadn't thought it would be this hard, in truth – she'd pretty much gotten her way with the Winchester's, no matter how much she complained and bagged them out. They gave her a lot of freedom, as long as it didn't impede on her safety, or theirs, or on the hunt. What reason did they have for not allowing her, after all? If the dark woman left again, it'd have no real effect on _their_ lives. They were probably just being assholes, not letting her get her way, because they never offered it to her. Everything has to be the way the Winchesters dictate, everything as they say it should be. Well, she wasn't a slave. _Fuck them._ "I see no reason for her to."

"For _me_," she says, stressing the last word, and leaning forwards a little, showing her seriousness, how much it means to her, how much she needs this, how important it is. And crossing her arms under her breasts as she does so. Cleavage to get what you want – it's a way of life. _And, _it usually works on Dean. _Now, if he would just –_

"Not good enough," the older boy says. He looks away from her, running one large, square hand through his short, dark blonde hair. When it comes away it's sticking up in blunt, messy spikes, and gives the illusion that he is younger than his twenty-six years. In this light the tiny, virtually invisible freckles sprawled across his nose – as though a kindergartner had been going wild with toothbrushes, flicking, and brown paint – add to this, and despite her rising anger she feels the familiar clench her heart makes, every single goddamn day when she sees him. The sensation is as though someone has grabbed her heart, and squeezed it while jerking it up and down in rapid succession. No matter how many times it happens, she can't get over how insane it feels to have her heart behave in such a manner. It had never done anything remotely similar to it before. But then, the whole thing about her being in love with him was insane. What else was new? Suddenly he's looking back at her, hazel green eyes arrowing straight into hers as though he can view her very soul, her very essence, and take it all away. Fuck the clenching – her heart had _frozen. _Then he murdered all such mush with his next words – she should have known it wouldn't last, and that he was just thinking of a way to let her down again, not so gently, but all Dean. "Look, Lauren, we don't need to deal with the added burden of bringing her along with us – and then when she leaves you again, having to cope with you all broken up because you'd believed her when she said it would be different."

She blinked, eyebrows beetling for a confused second. He was getting a little _too_ strong and insightful on this topic. She would have taken a moment, or more, to ponder on the why, but then she reminded herself _– you're kind of in a fight for your emotional survival here. Kill it – kill it!_ "You mean _if _not _when_. And I don't think she will. Besides, she won't be a burden – she's just as good a hunter as I am, plus she has…_special_ powers, and she doesn't even have to ride with us; she has her own car. I don't see the problem." Usually she'd say Sharika was _almost_ as good a hunter as she was, because that was just the way she was. Wisecracking and sarcastic and derogatory. But at this time, she knew she was pimping Sharika's good side out her to the boys' weaknesses – good hunters and their skills and information, and besides, the dark woman _was_ just as good in most ways, if not better in some.

So the equation stands at – good hunter (Sharika) equals big plus. Neutralises the '_protect Lauren, we're always right_' factor…?

"Lauren," the taller boy said, turning around finally and obviously deciding to show an active interest and take a stand. He understands, doesn't he, how much the woman needs her friend? How much she needs this reconciliation – or at least the chance at it. He's so intuitive like that, he _knows_ her. And she knows that he cares about her. But then… he so often agrees with Dean. Not about the little things, sure, and half the time not even about the big things. But the medium, in between things? Usually he had her back. If only she could read what he's thinking right now. If only she could see his eyes, the boy's dead-give-away, so expressive eyes. But his fringe falls over them, concealing the thoughts contained within their blue green depths. And then, as though he heard her unspoken wishes he brushes it away impatiently, with long, slender fingers. The strands parting reveal stern determination, and she feels her heart sinking. "Dean's right. We can't take the risk." _Not so much with the neutralising. Damn it._

She opened her mouth, but then there came a hesitant knock on the door. She knew who it was, immediately. Everyone she was close to had a different knocking tone, and she knew them all. The dark woman's was always slightly hesitant, but still loud enough to be noticeable, almost as though she didn't want to be disturbing the going's on behind the door, but now that she was she didn't want to have to keep doing it, or for it to have no effect. The tall boy's was slow and even, and he never entered a room that was closed off without doing so – probably a learned, ingrained and embarrassment centred habit after living with his brother and his…appetites…all his life. The oldest boy's knock was loud and impatient, and half the time he was opening the door with the hand he wasn't using to knock.

This tendency was much to both his and her horror at times, when he caught her shaving her legs after a shower (a.k.a. naked) on the bathroom floor, and there was no lock, or when she was _in_ the shower, or when she was changing in the bathroom or in the bedroom when the boys went out somewhere. Sometimes she conveniently '_forgot'_ to lock the door, just to chance such occurrences, and the ensuing shouting match about 'fucking _privacy_ Dean!' and how 'Dean was such a freakin' _perve'_. It amused her to no end to see his face whenever he caught her in these positions – a mixture of surprise and shock…and something else right at the back of his eyes, like – well…she'd never been exposed to it long enough to figure it out, so she wasn't sure. It was probably just her optimistic, love clouded nature that deluded her enough to imagine the heat in his gaze. And then, of course, there was always the lingering hope that one day, if she tried hard enough, if she was there, if he wanted he could…take advantage. And then reality strikes, like a sharp, firm wake up call, a slap in the face. Not that he ever _would_ take advantage. He had his pick of a billion women a day – why the hell would he ever consider her as more than a mild nuisance, and a thing to be toyed with, played with, prodded and poked to see what reaction it gave? Dean wasn't cruel – not in the way you would usually think. He just didn't _get it._ What he was doing to her – how much it –_ damn it_. He didn't even find her attractive, after all, who the hell would?

"Come in," she calls, and the dark woman enters, head held high as she meets the accusing eyes of the boys. Her shoulders are pulled back and her face is set, much in the manner of a soldier who is facing their first battle – or at least going to war.

"Hi," the dark woman mutters, a habit of sorts – and then the other one feels the tension strumming through the air like the calm, pulsing power of the quiet before a storm. It was smooth and heavy, and spiked with the awkwardness of the dark woman, as she didn't know how to react in the presence of the Winchesters, now that it wasn't all automatic flight, fight and nurture responses. Since Dean and the woman had just been hashing it out, it had to be even worse for the dark woman. She was sure to have heard it, and know what it had been about. The woman glances at Dean, eyeing him swiftly up and down – he's as tense as Sharika; Sam had gone back to packing his bag, showing his large non-involvement in the issue.

The blonde woman hides a smile and gets up to stand next to the dark woman, also facing the Winchesters. Nothing but a calm, sedate strength and studied resolve show on her features, and the boys are taken aback although they do not display it – that the blonde woman would so swiftly change sides, and back up the woman who had deserted her so easily irks the oldest boy in ways he refuses to acknowledge, even to himself. His glare narrows even further at the woman who had set off this whole problem. _How dare she just come back into Lauren's life, and think that she can just continue wherever it was she left off?_ He wasn't going to let her use and discard Lauren again, and besides – their dad had given them orders to protect her. Against what, he hadn't said, so Dean had to make those decisions. He was the oldest, the most responsible. Whatever he says around here goes. That was that.

"We already told your girlfriend," he says, sarcasm dripping like dark honey from his voice. "You aren't coming anywhere with us."

The blonde woman's jaw tenses and she grits her teeth silently, grinding them together as though she could powder the anger she feels, and swallow it down deep inside her, until it loses its potency. She will not be bossed around. She will not allow her decisions to be made for her, yet again. If this was how she was going to be treated, then… "Fine," she says, looking away from the boys, shrugging and rolling her eyes as though it is no big deal.

The Winchesters blink, taken aback, as is the dark woman. They all stare at her, waiting for something else. But she's decided to take a leaf out of the boys' book. Wait for the conflict to come to you, do not chase after it with all guns blazing, all cards drawn, all emotions and thoughts and where you stand glowingly obvious.

"_Fine_?" the tallest boy finally mutters incredulously, the questioning air in his voice testing the waters of her meaning for the rest of the group. The dark woman and his brother glance at him for a second, before their eyes meet and tear away again, with both of them of the same mind. They will not be put on an even keel with each other – they will have nothing in common. _Nothing_.

The blonde woman looks up from the ground and smiles at the tallest boy – a dangerous, determined smile that pulls three bodies as taut as tensed bowstring, even as hers flows and relaxes, her decision filling her with calm confidence. "Yes, Sam. That's just fine." It was as though she was agreeing to something simple and easy, something that she didn't feel passionate about. As though she wasn't ready to batter those boys into a pulp until they got their heads out of their asses long enough to listen to her. Her eyelashes flutter over her eyes and her smile spreads, as the pain blossoms in her chest at the thought over never seeing the oldest boy again. Never touching him again. Never having the chance for anything other than a tenuous friendship. But it's his choice. What he says goes, right? She'll be damned if she lets him have the decision he'd _thought_ he'd made. "Since Sharika can't travel with us…I'm travelling with her. I guess this is goodbye. I'll miss you Sam; you're like the little brother I never got to know, and now wish I hadn't." Her eyes crinkle at this, and she ignores the frozen shock on three separate faces. "Anyways…time to hit the road. Sharika, you ready?"

"Okay," the dark woman says, recovering, and shrugs, used to the blonde one's erratic personality and the table turning she pulled on everyone around her. That she was doing it to the oldest boy was no surprise, and she'd even expected something like this to occur. Besides, she didn't want to have to travel with the males anyway; all she wanted was to have her friend with her again for them to sort this out. The boys would just add complications that she didn't need, or want.

"Good." She smiles at the other woman, and they share a second of connection, a spark of recognition – and then she pulls away again, turning her smile on the boys and grabbing her own duffle off the floor. "See you guys, well, you know, probably never again." She turns, and they are half way to the door, when the oldest boy says it. It confirmed all her suspicions as to what he'd been thinking, and thus stops her in her tracks, blood thundering like the pounding of a waterfall through her brain, smashing everything all to pieces – rationality, willpower, numb calm. He really was an idiot sometimes.

"No way. Dad told us to protect you, and that's what we're going to do. _You_ are coming with us, and _she_ is not."

"_Excuse_ –" she spins around, and starts to yell, when she is interrupted by Dean's ring tone. He doesn't even look in her direction as he digs it out of the pocket of his dark blue jeans, strong, tanned fingers scrabbling for purchase, until the mobile and his hand are out and he flips the phone open, placing it against his ear.

"Yeah?" he asks into the speaker, and then his movements, which were previously on the borderline of pacing, still. His hazel green eyes widen and he shoots a quick look at Sam, who directs a confused one back. "It's Dad. Where are y- yes, sir. Yeah." He nods, although only the people in the room can see it of course, as he's interrupted. "Yeah." _Is that all he's going to say?! _"But – okay." The woman mutters to herself sarcastically in her head, about there finally being some variety. "Yes, sir. Yeah." _Oh, great, we're back to that again. So much for variety, and non-monosyllabic answers._ The eldest boy hangs up the phone and turns to the women again. "You're both coming with us. Be in the car in five minutes."

"Wait, what?" the dark woman exclaims, before she battens her mouth shut again, due to the shock of the boy suddenly agreeing to their request. This instinctual response was not meant to happen – she did not purposely decide to let it loose, and now she has everyone looking at her. The blonde woman is close enough to see a slight stain spreading over her cheekbones, and she feels her mouth twitch into a true smile, not the fake one she'd been handing out through this whole scene. She feels a small surge of amusement run through her – she'd forgotten some of Sharika's more choice characteristics in the midst of losing her. _Losing her – fuck. _The barrier slams up against any positive feelings, and she's left with the smile pulling at her muscles, as false as it ever had been, and too tight to ever be mistaken as real. It hurts her cheeks, and then she focuses again – the boy is speaking.

"The car. Go."

"I think she meant the other part, asshole," the woman says faux cheerfully, although amused by this complete change of events, the barrier still encloses her. Then again, it was a joy, really, if you viewed it from her point of view – having the tables not only turned, but pulled out from under Dean so totally it had left the very air around them breathless with the speed.

"Ask no questions, tell no lies." The eldest boy turns back to his duffle bag, and resumes the struggle of doing it up.

"Dean, what did he want?" the taller boy asks, head cocked to the side, stare intensifying as he focuses on his older brother, his body language, his tone, every nuance. If he tells a lie, surely the boy would be able to tell.

"It was about her, Sam." The elder boy waves a hand in the dark woman's direction, and she is shot a look from under brown brows, sea green eyes questioning, accusing.

"How do you know our Dad?" he asks, turning to the dark woman, his size seeming to grow as the other one watches, shooting hazel green and gold glances at everyone, trying to see what is not being said, what should be said, what possibly might be said. She knows, but will the boys be told the truth? Is there more than she knows to it? _Pay attention,_ her thoughts admonish her, as they often do when her mind wanders.

"We keep in contact," the dark woman says nonchalantly, shrugging. If the blonde woman hadn't known in what high esteem her old friend holds the hunter, she would have thought it was just a vague acquaintance. "He's kind of my mentor, and he just helps, in making decisions objectively with me – sometimes you're a little too close to the problem to be able to do that." She glances at the blonde woman, and then away, spiking her curiosity – which is left unfilled as she continues. "It's the same for me as Lauren – he kind of took me under his wing." She blinks, brow beetling, and suddenly her entire focus is on the floor, dark brown eyes scouring it as though it holds secrets and truths she never would have believed. "Oh my god, he – I mean – he'd – this must mean that he's –" she cuts herself off as everyone eyes her questioningly, and she glances at the blonde woman again, seeming to swallow her words. This leaves her confused and unsatisfied, questions tearing at her head like harpies, and she wonders… _Could John have had something to do with…no. It can't be._ "Never mind."

The women glance at each other simultaneously this time and, although the blonde one is feeling the unbearable pressure of her personality's desire to kick the information out of Sharika, the dark woman shrugs before she's able and turns to leave the room. She asks the boys questions with her eyes, but they are as curious and unknowing as she. She shakes her head, and walks towards the door, realising that they know about as much as she does – nothing.

At the door she hears Sammy's whisper – about the dark woman knowing more than they did. The angry undertone in his voice warns her about the days ahead, but she refuses to dwell or be worried.

They had time.

She hoped. Was she just fooling herself? Her instinctual bravado in the face of Dean's disbelief was very different than what she actually thought in the dark corners of her mind. What was stopping Sharika from leaving again?

Nothing.

AN: Miss me? Lol. I'm making up for missing my last posting; so happy days! I hope you guys enjoy! Reviews, as always, are treasured. Thank you everyone who has done so, and also to my pushy, but still cool, beta, again, who encouraged me to post late. I was considering just missing it... And thanks of course, to my other, wonderful beta, who makes my writing what it is. LOVE TO EVERYONE!!

MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL THAT CRAP.


	12. You May Think You See

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

12. You May Think You See

_Reflect upon your present blessings - of which every man has many – not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some._

_-- Charles Dickens_

Dean tried to make me get in the Impala with him and Sam, but I – well, let's just say I politely declined. It wasn't so much trying, as it was trying to force me. He used the most ridiculous excuses – I think he thought she was going to try and kidnap me or something. I mean, seriously _– Sharika's car couldn't handle all the extra weight? Way to make a girl feel fat. _Of course, considering her car…

That boy has serious trust issues. Not that I could really blame him…somewhere in the back – the very, very back, under layers of rationality, reasoning and logical thought – of my mind, lie the same faint concerns.

Part of me hadn't wanted to go with Sam and Dean – it meant that I could avoid – I mean, _it meant that I could give Sharika some space of her own, to figure things out._ She'd been really wound up, shifting from foot to foot, as Dean argued with me, his reasons for me to travel with Sam and him getting lamer and lamer. I'd felt my resolve weakening, after all, that part was very persuasive, and linked to my fears, insecurities and desire to be near Dean. Powerful elements in their own right, let alone put together.

But another, more desperate, part of me had wanted to reconcile. It wanted the awkwardness that existed between us to be banished – swept out the door like so much unnecessary dust and dirt.

Right now I was riding in the front of Sharika's car – some old heap of junk that I'd viewed with barely concealed disdain and disgust when first seeing it. It was not only a rust bucket, and on its very, _very _last legs – so Dean was probably right about the extra weight excuse…– after being in the Impala, it was a very _insult_ to my soul. Dean's car could outrun this thing by three states, with two wheels missing. My precise reaction after I'd first seen it, coming out of the motel room, was to double up in laughter, choking out about how sorry I felt for the person who had to drive that _thing_. Then I'd seen Sharika's face – and realised that it was hers. I hadn't apologised. It was her fault I'd sold her car when she left me, not mine, and that she now had to ride in this rust bucket.

Still… at the moment, I couldn't really bring myself to care. About this 'car' – _I use the term very loosely _– or the Impala (ok, _LIES_).

Sharika was driving, eyes straight forwards, demeanour calm and composed and quiet. I wonder what she's thinking about. Probably about John's phone call, and whatever knowledge she retains, that the rest of us are not privy to. It must tie into the reason she left me, otherwise she would have blurted it out. At least she was respecting my wishes for once. Then again, she could be thinking about the price of rice in China, for all I know. That woman was a daydreamer.

I do, however, know for certain what _I'm_ thinking about – the nibbling questions dancing at the edges of my awareness; why had Dean so suddenly accepted, when he'd been so vehemently against it just before that phone call? What _was_ Sharika's reason for leaving me? And, damn it all to hell, when was this spring going to stop poking me in the ass like a teenage boy's first erection?

I shifted on my seat and smiled out the window, so she wouldn't see. I didn't have to know the answers yet, it'd all come out eventually, and they weren't all that pressing at the moment anyways. Now was a quiet time for reflection on past, present and future.

After all, we were headed to Massachusetts. I had hours and hours, or at least a couple, until we pause at a rest stop, to think about everything. I have to talk to Sam and Dean in private, after all of us figure out what the hell we're going to do. I suppose there are some good things about this lifestyle; such as having a whole lot of one on one time with your head. Helps with either repression, or sorting things out.

I smiled again, and glanced at Sharika's profile. So familiar, yet so changed. Her features had grown thinner, sharper, more mature. She'd had a rounder face before; just a little around her jaw line and cheekbones. She was a year younger than me, so I'd missed out on the change from still-mostly-adolescent to young adult. It was strange that I hadn't witnessed this stage – we'd always been there for each other. We'd always leaned on each other, and I always had her asking me for advice – seeing as how I was one whole step ahead of her in the age race, and knew what was coming next in our wonderful time of puberty. I was there with her through half of our teenage years; all the firsts that we had we shared with each other, spilling our secret heart aches and experiences in the dark silences of the night, laughing together about boys and how stupid they could be. We were travelling together when we both had our first crush, our first kiss, in my case my first…well, my first fuck. It couldn't really be called anything else after – let's not go there. We'd been together through all the angst and hormones and fighting. Saving lives together, saving each others' lives. I felt a quiet pang at this loss – that I'd missed out on a whole year of her life, and then, remembering how she just threw it all away, got over it. She hadn't cared about missing part of my life, so…

You can't change the past right? Only learn from it. And now, with the sun glinting through the windows and warming my thighs, breeze blowing back my hair, and the smell of petrol and dust in the air, I was practically happy, content. I haven't felt this way in the presence of anyone other then Dean and sometimes Sam in over a year.

I wondered if it would last.

_Not bloody likely. _

AN: Just a short chapter, you know. Sorry for updating late, I was at a friends' house and well… things happen. Forgive? And thanks for the reviews as always!!! Hope you like this chapter as much as you are gonna LOVE the next one. Peace.


	13. The More You Think The Less You Know

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

13. The More You Think the Less You Know

_It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important._

_-- Sherlock Holmes_

You were at the bar of a somewhat crowded, random bar, ordering drinks for everyone when it happened. You were thinking to yourself again, about how your life seemed to consist only of a series of rundown, cheap motels, crappy roadside diners, and dingy bars like this one. There was the added fun of dark places, and cemeteries and caves and haunted houses, of course, but that was for work. When did you ever do anything that was outside of eating and sleeping and work?

The answer came to you along with an imported beer, a shy smile and the question of your name. And the answer was…

Never.

You looked at the guy who had bought you a drink, in unadulterated shock. He was about an inch taller than you, and a little overweight, with messy black hair and the sweetest, shyest smile beneath a red layer of acne. His eyes were blue – a startling blue, like the summer's sunniest sky, and he looked completely and utterly ordinary, but at the same time like a ghostly, unspoken answer to your previous prayers of some sort of normalcy. Something that you never thought you'd have, after that first night, but kind of wanted none the less. You wouldn't trade your life for anything – ever. You loved it. It was just that sometimes you missed elements of what could have been; dates, boyfriends, family, a home. It was hard to contend with sometimes, and now here this guy was offering you a huge, steaming pile of regular on a silver platter.

"Uh…" you blinked at him, mouth parted, and your hand deliberately unclenched next to the beer the bartender had placed next to it. He was sitting on the bar stool adjacent to you, looking at you with unabashed interest, his head cocked to the side and that angelic smile pulling the right side of his mouth up slightly. You weren't really used to being approached or bought drinks. Probably because you were always in the middle of the Winchesters, and they repelled other, lusty, heterosexual men as though they were surrounded in some kind of impenetrable force field. One look, with raised eyebrows from Sammy, or a single snide comment from Dean was intimidating enough to scare away even the bravest male. Well, it was either that or you looked like you belonged to one of them. Plus, even if you managed to escape their immediate proximity, where they couldn't warn other guys away as though they wore a sign on their backs, when you were approached it was usually by guys with this specific, sleazebag kind of feel. Guys you've chased away with various excuses of 'I'm sorry, I don't swing that way', 'Du ist a Blödes Arschloch' (or, you are a stupid asshole, in German) and a confused expression, or making your eyes look in different directions, so they'd get uncomfortable and think you were mentally challenged. They'd leave after they received any one of these reactions, and go be slime balls to other women – after all, they were only after one thing. This boy, shy, without a single touch to your arm or a _'that shirt would look even better on my floor'_, that was sitting in front of you had the feel and body language of a regular, if deathly nervous, Joe. It was almost adorable. You struggled to produce a smile, as his drooped. "It's Claire."

A hunter never reveals her true identity.

And then you forgot all about getting drinks for the other three, and about leaving Sharika in their midst – where it must be a worse situation than that of a deer pole dancing in the middle of a group of deer hunters. You even sort of managed to push Dean out of the forefront of your mind, where he was usually standing, lecturing or paying you out on whatever you were doing. It was weird that you had a miniature Dean, like a conscience in your head; it seems that your subconscious didn't believe that he did that to you enough in person. Then again, he was your stabilising force – usually he stopped you from doing stupid things, or getting into fights that you could never hope to win, no matter what the miniature, cannibalistic Lauren that jumped up and down, swinging her spear around told you.

In your head, as Phil (the guy who'd bought you this strange tasting beer – you were a local kind of girl) told you about his job as an accountant – something so painfully normal it was like a kick in the head – you saw the mini Dean pull himself back onto your brain with the usual stubborn determination he had in life. He sat there, and started passing judgements about Phil – _Ugh, is this really what you want, Princess? A pizza face accountant who thinks he's amusing?_

When Phil asked you out to dinner for the next night, you said yes, and watched in satisfaction as Dean fell off your brain in shock. It pleased you more than you were willing to admit. Rifling Dean's feathers was one of your favourite pastimes – astonishing him so that he became speechless was what you lived for. And then, as though your thoughts of him had pulled him to your position, the real Dean came up to you, quiet anger riding him like a cowboy rides a bull. He was probably thinking you were being a selfish bitch and avoiding the strained silence that rested between the others – which, in a way, you were. You smiled at him, and said to Phil, already standing up, "This is my brother Dean, Dean this is Phil. His appearing act means I have to go, so, see you tomorrow night?" You weren't sure why you were doing this exactly. Maybe it was because it had been forever since you'd had a date with a nice man, maybe it was because of your sudden craving for normalcy – like a pregnant woman's one for pickles – or maybe it was to get over Dean, because you all knew where that was going to end up. Messy, and broken up and leaving you even more fucked in the head, if that was possible. Maybe it was a combination of all three. Whatever, it didn't really matter now – you'd already answered Phil. After you introduced him, you angled your body away from Dean, and spoke exclusively to Phil who said it was nice to meet him – _ha_ – and that, yes; he'd see you tomorrow night, eight o'clock? You agreed, giving him a last smile, and then you ushered Dean out of the bar before he had time to breathe, let alone get what was going on.

Well, you wished.

"What the hell was that?" he yelled at you, when you were outside and Sam and Sharika appeared, a gulf stretched between them like the Grand Canyon.

"That was a date, just like the one I'll be having tomorrow," you snapped back, and felt your skin flush with his nearness as he leaned closer, eyes stabbing into yours. You hoped he mistook it for temper. Your breathing hitched, and you had to make a conscious effort to narrow your eyes and plant a scowl on your mouth, when all you wanted to do was move even closer and wrap your arms around him, lean into all that fire and burn. _No, no, _you told yourself, _You are getting OVER him. That's what this date is about, besides the normalcy factor; you have to stop mooning over him. NOW. _"What the hell is your problem?"

The two of your bickered and bit at each other and scratched down defences and growled for five minutes, five minutes where you were breathless and fighting your instincts and trying to stick to your convictions. And then Sam tried to step in and Dean said it.

You'd just been arguing about why you couldn't go out with Phil – you were on a mission, blah, blah, distraction, blah – and then he said it. Well, yelled it really.

"He's not good enough for you anyway; he's an accountant for god's sake!"

"What, I'm not allowed to have a date with an accountant? Why the hell not Dean?!"

"Because you're fucking beautiful, alright?!"

The stillness that filled the air could have rivalled the weight of an elephant. It was tense, heavy and shocked, and you imagined it being a discoloured blue, shot through with the brightest white stars you'd ever seen. The seconds stretched between you eternally, suspended in time, with the white lights growing brighter all the while. His eyes were as wide as yours, their hazel green irises barely showing around his huge pupils, and then his eyelids fluttered down, shuttering his emotions from your view. _Did he – no he couldn't have – you couldn't believe that he'd actually – he wouldn't say that_. That wasn't _Dean_. You had to be hallucinating, or having some sort of half drunken side effect.

"In a disfigured, clown like way," he added, as though it was an afterthought. He swept his gaze over you in a way that you'd usually find offensive – but right now couldn't care less about – and then he turned away. He hadn't meant it surely…but…Dean had called _you_ beautiful.

You never saw Phil again.

000

The tension between the two of them was almost palpable. You could feel it, even from where you were – half way across the diner, with the eldest boy. Everyone else in here could feel it too, everyone who wasn't too caught up in their own lives to notice the abnormally tall, beautiful boy, and the equally beautiful, though far shorter, dark skinned girl, and the sexual pressure strung between them like a too short length of rope.

They were sitting at opposite ends of the table, their bodies facing each other, but their faces – and thus eyes – avoiding all contact. Their legs were sprawled under the table, not touching with a stiff limbed determination disguised as relaxation that you watched with a studied, vaguely amused air. The attraction between them was as obvious as the nose on your face, but they had a lot of issues they need to work out before they even accepted it, and besides, they were both completely denying it. The tall boy was trying to make himself dislike the dark woman – for still unknown, probably idiotic and possibly to do with you reasons – and she was struggling to focus all of her attention onto you as well. So, it was all your fault. Joy.

You were going to have to talk to one of them about it…and by talk, you mean it's probably going to end up being a verbal sparring match, with lots of refutations and self recriminations and maybe even some shouting and head-banging thrown in, just for fun.

Maybe you'll just ignore it for a while, see what they do by themselves. It can't, and it won't go on like this forever, nor even for very long – both of them are far too confrontational. Then again…that's balanced out by their stubborn, consider-every-angle-before-you-make-a-move cautious natures.

Anyway…you don't have to do anything straight out; there is such a thing as subtlety and careful nudging. Creating opportunities, rubbing their tempers the wrong way…

This might almost be fun.

000

A silent, uncomfortable ride in the Impala, with all three of your reluctant companions was not exactly the best wake up call you could hope for in the morning. Sharika's junk pile of a car had kicked the bucket, refusing to start that morning, even after you and Dean tried to coach it for two straight hours. It had led to an uneasy recognition that you'd all be riding in the same car from then on, no way to flee each others propinquity for extended lengths of time.

They were all equally displeased by the current situation – Sam and Dean due to the fact that they pretty much despised her, Sharika because of the bordering on abusive way they treated her. The Winchester's didn't physically attack her or anything – the thought would never even run through their heads, the honourable, straight forward puppies; but the emotional and verbal minefields and explosions were just as bad. She was slowly wearing down and cracking up – you had to wonder at their reasons, on occasion. _What did they think they were doing? _

Sure, it was a little less uncomfortable for you because you weren't directly involved in this tension, you were just the cause of it. _Much better_. You still had to sit smack dab in the middle of it, everything dancing around you like dark coloured and ugly faeries chasing out all the nice things that could have come from this scenario.

It was difficult and confusing all the time; you naturally sided with the Winchesters, even though you knew they were the ones in the wrong. Sure, they thought they were doing what was best for you, but did they really have to be such overbearing assholes? You couldn't help but feel a tiny thrill, somewhere deep inside somewhere that they cared this much about you and your wellbeing, but that was trumped by the annoyance of the behaviour they were displaying towards your once best friend.

You didn't know which way to turn, what to think, anymore.

These days your life seemed to be full up of tense, unbearable silences between everyone around you, the air intolerably thickened by the things no one would say, but were obviously thinking. It grew so heavy sometimes that it was hard to breathe, and you felt as though you could suffocate from the unspoken words and truths and lies.

Your neck had a crick from sleeping against the window – a self imposed half sleep, just so you could escape the atmosphere – and your back was sorer than it would be if you'd been kicked by a mule. Your muscles had been clenched tighter than a drawn back fist, or your travelling companions' mouths, come to think of it.

So now you were sitting in this shit ass diner, with a shit ass mood and purple bags under your eyes. You hadn't been able to sleep last night, having had to share a bed with Dean _again_, which always led to you starting awake every ten minutes, just to check that you hadn't moved closer to him, hadn't draped yourself around him in ways that were far too telling. Despite your wishes and the innocence you could fake in the morning, your mind was far too conscious that there'd be no going back if you gave in that last, little piece of your resistance. Even though it was too late as it was, you had to cling to that hope that you'd get over him. And then of course, Sammy was in the room – you weren't that free (or insane) that you'd even consider doing anything with him in the room, even if there had been hope of it. And Sharika had procured the only other room – one with a single bed. _Who knew that crap motels were in such high demand?_ Her room was even worse than the one you and the boys had been given, you'd discovered, so you didn't even consider sleeping on the floor. Cockroaches and rats were not your most favourite of god's creatures, and her room had more than its fair share. At least if you were sharing with Sam and Dean the vermin had two other (much bigger, _meatier_) targets to mull over before choosing you for a meal.

You glared at the dirty, sticky table top, as though it was the cause of all your problems, and waited for Sharika to get back from pissing, and Sam to get back from ordering food. Dean was straight across from you, reading the menu with detached interest, his lips a little puffy. It was weird – whenever he'd gone a couple of days without his sleep requirements, his lips swelled just enough to be noticeable to your obsessive eyes. What could you say? His lips were a fucking miracle. You couldn't help noticing them. Back to his missing sleep…he wasn't sick, was he? No… He'd just been working hard lately; that poltergeist in Oklahoma had given everyone a thorough beating, and Dean had had the slashes to prove it. He usually slept either on his stomach, or the side that his sore arm was on, so his sleep would be interrupted if he tried to turn on his bandages. That must be it. What other reason could it be? It'd never be the same as yours; you weren't dumb enough to even think about that option. It hurt too much.

Of course, right now you couldn't give a fuck about the reason he might not be getting enough sleep. You had your own problems, not only your lack of sleep, but Sharika's growing insistence to tell you everything and unburden herself. Her poor heavy soul, _aww_, poor incapacitated _her_. You wondered often if you'd give her the chance in any time under a year – a sadistic side of you wanted her to suffer just as long as you had. On the other, curiosity was a fucking _bitch_, not a damn _cat_, and it was scratching at your brain all day every day with sharp nails, trying to get you to ask. Plus, who knew if she'd be around that long? Sam and Dean's attitudes towards Sharika sure weren't helping – all snappy and hurtful or just disdainful; she just ignored them, although you could tell it was getting harder and harder for her to do so. You wondered how she managed it, and were surprised she didn't stick up for herself in the least bit. The Sharika you had known was no mouse, she had spunk and spirit, and there was no way she ever would have settled with the boy's attitudes towards her. But this Sharika – she just nodded, jaw clenched, and stayed quiet. Though she faked nonchalance you could see they were getting to her, it was in the way her eyes said all the things she wouldn't, the way her hands fidgeted with whatever was in them, or clamped on them so tightly you wondered how the boys didn't realise that the objects symbolised their heads – the ones on their shoulders, or otherwise. You knew that if you had been the one in her position, you would have knocked their lights out a week ago – as it was you would hardly have blamed her on one level, if she left now.

The fact that she didn't had to mean _something_ right? Then again…it had only been one and a half weeks since she'd joined you, so…perhaps she just had more patience than you did. You couldn't lift your spirits too high – they'd have a mighty long way to fall if you dared.

All this thinking, all these complications and twists and turns and silences and attitudes were starting to wear thin and grate on your nerves – and if you had to tell just _one_ _more_ asshole where he could stick it, you were going to start _screaming_.

"So, what d'you feel like this fine afternoon? A deliciously dry and tasteless sandwich, or a delightfully greasy bowl of onion soup?" Dean's sarcastic rumble sounded from across the table, and you stopped giving the sticky laminated surface a death glare to turn it on him. "Ah, I see…" he said, affecting a wise and thoughtful tone, crossed with that of a snobbish maitre'd who'd just had two hillbillies score themselves a table in his restaurant. "One order of bitchy, with a side dish of _'go fuck yourself Dean'_, to go."

You tried to contain it, you really did. It wriggled, like a small worm just poking its head from the earth, and then it started to spread. Soon, it was like a whole worm, squiggling around on your face, writhing in the rain – before it finally turned into a snort, then a fully fledged laugh.

It wasn't all that funny, you supposed later on – he said funnier things on a regular basis – but it was a combination of things that finally got you to laugh out loud at something Dean said. Usually you buried your laughter so deep inside that it gave you belly aches, and that plus your tiredness, and your helplessness in the face of a Dean who was just looking too fucking, annoyingly beautiful to be real, made you crack.

You laughed and laughed, tears running down your face, your whole body shaking, until you weren't sure if you were laughing or crying anymore. It had the high-pitched undertone of hysteria, after all, and the damn boy was looking at you as though he wasn't sure what it was either. You couldn't bring yourself to care – it felt so good to laugh, to let it all out, especially with all this tension floating around outside and inside of you.

"Funny," you gasped, clutching your sides. "So, fucking, _funny_."

"So, this is why you never laugh," he said, nodding, which just made you laugh harder – if that was possible.

"Mmmph," you grunted. Then you managed to gasp out, still laughing, but now able to look him in the eye – "Actually, this is just why I try not to laugh at _you_."

And he smiled. At you.

000

A snatch of time – you're lying on your stomach on the sagging motel bed, legs crossed in the air, a pile of local information spread in front of you. It's giving you the low-down on that house on the hillside, the one reported to be haunted. You're trying to find out why that might be, and so is Sharika, who's on the bed opposite yours, in the same position.

The silence is comfortable between the two of you, but still noticeable. Sure, nothing needed to be said, but that didn't mean you had to say nothing. At least, that's how it used to be.

You remember a time when conversation flowed as easily as water, and you didn't have to struggle to think of something that didn't mean, or allude, to something else. You didn't have to construct a sentence in your head before you allowed yourself to say it out loud – it used to be that you said whatever came out of your mouth, and laughed about it, if it sounded like something else. You took the consequences – her laughing with you, or teasing you. These days, meanings got confused and intrinsically mixed with other thoughts and possible meanings, and teasing only came when the two of you were tipsy, or just before a hunt, because that's what loosened you up. With Sam and Dean there you didn't expect anything other than tolerant, tense silence from the dark woman, but when you were alone it was a different thing all together. Or at least, it should have been, right?

She's gathering information on her laptop, expression of vapid concentration probably as fake as your own is. Then again…she might actually be paying attention. _Who knew these days? _

You sure as hell didn't. Nothing was clear. Would it ever be again? Now that was the question.

000

You were waiting with strained patience as they squabbled next to you in whispers, in the house on the hillside. What did it matter what was 'the best' (in other words, Dean's in Dean's opinion, or Sharika's in Sharika's opinion) way to banish the evil spirit, as long as it got done?

You shifted your weight from knee to knee, holding onto your shotgun with white knuckled hands as Sammy kept watch for Joan Alice's reappearance, and the other two hashed it out. Both were in business mode, and both were fighting for dominance. It was the same in everything the four of you did. You and Sammy would be left there, waiting to be noticed, or your opinions considered, or even for them to just _shut up. _They never came to a decision alone.

You were crouched behind a dilapidated, sunken couch in the middle of Joan's lounge room. Well, what used to be her lounge room, when she was alive. Now it had belonged to Mark and Cindy Blodge, Paul Newman, Amy Hewton and Sara Klifas – although they only got to appreciate its pleasures for a very short period, before Joan killed them off in their sleep with a drill hole to the head.

_Who knew a chick called Joan Alice could be so bloody nasty?_ you asked yourself, disbelieving, as you looked around Sam's waist, trying to see if anything was going down, besides dismembered, perfectly acceptable, do-able ideas from the blonde idiot, and the dark haired bimbo. _God, just pick one already and be done with it, _you thought to yourself, frustrated, and swept the room with your eyes again, looking for any unnatural wind, any shadows, or even a pale woman who was moving too fast._ Then again,_ you thought, thinking about Joan Alice and her name again,_ if you died like she did – a stake through the heart by a superstitious landowner – you might not be so sweet or boring as your name implied either._

They were fighting about whether everyone should go out, or if there should be a distraction; what weapons to use; who should do the shooting; whether they should attempt communication with the spirit; whether they should spread out so as to find the body quicker – for fuck's sake, did it even _matter_? Banish it for a short time with some rock salt, then find the body and purify then burn it. _It wasn't all that complicated. _

You poked Sam in the side, then nodded with your head to the area beyond the couch, signalling that you should leave the other two there and do the job yourself, just the two of you. Sam smirked at Sharika and Dean – who were still utterly oblivious to your silent conversation – and nodded, and you jumped up from behind the couch, guns sweeping the room for any signs of Joan.

None came – but that didn't stop you from being flung through the air to connect with the wall about ten metres away, and two off of the ground. Your attention, strange as it was, fixated on the sensation of flying in that infinite stretch of time before you connected with the plaster and the painting that hung there on the wall. It was so akin to what it felt like when you were around Dean it was amazing. And then your back united with the wall first, followed by the back of your head, and the resounding crack that echoed through the room must have been so loud that it made you pass out.

When you came to again, you were still in the same position on Joan's floor, Sharika and Dean were standing over you, bickering again, this time about whose fault it was – they were blaming each other, and, intermittently, Sam, who was rifling through the first aid kit.

"Not – Sammy's – fault –" you grunted, then held a hand to the side of your head. There was a headache swimming in there that could rival all the Winchesters put together for grit and strength and sheer ability to frustrate.

They looked down at you simultaneously, identical expressions of worry, pissed-off-ed-ness and care showing on their features as clearly as daylight. You sighed, rolled your eyes and tried to sit up – the pain in your head threatened to make you vomit, but you moved past it, breathing deeply and reaching your second wind. _Why were you always the one getting hurt in hunts? _you asked yourself, disgruntled, and then realised it was because you were the most reckless. Both of the knuckleheads above you berated you on this – _endlessly_. You promised yourself to be more careful from now on – of course, that's what you always told yourself and them when you got injured working, but hey. You survived, so all was okay, right?

You wished. They started bagging on you at the same time, saying the same thing although in their different fashions and tones and ways, the words spilling over you like milk.

You wondered if they even realised how similar they were.

000

"You _do_," you half sighed, half giggled, pointing at the smear of ketchup on the side of Dean's mouth. He refused to believe you were actually telling him the truth – that the sauce was there – he just thought you were playing with him. You usually were – but not this time.

"You're just trying to make me look like an idiot," he said, in an offhanded manner, taking another bite out of his burger and smearing even more ketchup there, the red stain brighter than blood on his unshaven cheek, the tanned skin rough with dark stubble, which you considered for a split second's clarity would feel like against your stomach. _Rough against smooth, a soft scrape that would – _

"Trust me; you don't need my help for that." You grinned as he shook his head at you – the smudge made him look like a disreputable, stubborn, messy child, and as much as you hated to sweep away the image, it was just too – too _endearing_. And as much as you usually enjoyed that… today was not a good day. He was already in one of his dark moods. If he didn't do wipe it away, you'd have to do it yourself. "Here," you said, with an exasperated breath, pulling him closer by his shirt collar, and grabbing your napkin with your other hand. With careful, maternal care, you removed the ketchup from his cheek, scrubbing firmly with the just-licked end of the soft paper.

Then you made the mistake of looking into his eyes. You realised the error of your ways as soon as you'd done so – but by then, you couldn't care less.

He stared into them with an intensity that literally knocked the breath out of you, removing along with it all thought, all sensation, everything but his almond shaped, long lashed, hazel green eyes, that saw straight through you like your defences weren't even there. _What did he see? _

You saw in his eyes a roaring fire – a fire flamed by –

"Lauren?" your shoulder was being shaken, and you blinked and shook your head, feeling as though you were awaking from a deep stupor. You tore your eyes away from Dean, to look up into concerned brown and blue green ones that looked down on you and Dean as though they weren't exactly sure what to make of the situation.

Neither did you. _Did you just stare at him like an idiot for an extended length of time, without stopping, pulling back, or blinking?_ The dryness of your eyes sure gave evidence to the last one.

_Fuck. _

You glanced back down at your hand, which was still holding the napkin in a strangling grip. You held it up so Dean could look at it – the white paper was blemished with red on its tip. "Told you so," you said, as though that's all there was and had been.

What else were you supposed to think?

AN: This was a chapter to show the growing relationships between all the characters. I love how the her/Dean thing is growing…and then we've got the potential of a Sam/Sharika thing for the future._ Distant future. _I just really felt like updating early, but I'll still update again on Sunday. I just felt that the last chapter was pretty shit, and some of you might be losing interest. I know it was that way for me at that point – it was a fill in chapter, because I needed one so I could make the next couple in the style/person I wanted. Anyways, I'm going to stop blabbering – except to say that REVIEWS ARE LOVE (as always) and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Out.


	14. Frenzied State Of Mind

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

14. Frenzied State of Mind

_Nobody says you must laugh, but a sense of humour can help you overlook the unattractive, tolerate the unpleasant, cope with the unexpected, and smile through the day._

_-- Ann Landers_

I could feel the anger burning through her, like a heated brand against my skin. She was sitting diagonal to me across the table, and the buried fury that clenched her muscles so tightly that she was rigid wafted over to me as though it were an actual scent – I could _smell_ the wrath coming off of her in waves; it smelt like the sharp tang of burnt metal, a strike like a blacksmith's blow to the palate.

The boys didn't even realise.

They were the cause of it of course, something you'd think they'd understand after the two weeks the four of us have spent together. Dean's constant snarky comments, Sam's unvarying implications of cowardice, and both of their combined, continuous stream of harping on about how she'd left me. I swear, occasionally I think they feel stronger about it than I myself do. Stupid dickheads probably can't even see that she's fed up with them now. I know if it had been me…they'd have been dead and buried last week.

As it was her...well, I just knew she was going to snap. The fact that she hadn't already was quite remarkable. I know it's only been two weeks, but the harassment is constant. Now it looks like the tiniest thing might set her off.

It might be at them – it might be at me – it might be at an innocent bystander – who knew?

I sat quietly, studying her over the bent and misshapen, slightly sticky diner menu. She was staring at her cutlery with a kind of ferocity you'd expect to see on that of a psychotic choosing their weaponry – and nervousness swept through me. She wasn't _actually_ going to stab someone was she? Not that she could with a butter knife…but she _could_ take an eye out if she so wished, with that fork.

_Stay quiet_, I warned myself. _Quiet as a mouse…you don't want her unleashing that outburst on you, now do you? So do nothing, and I mean nothing, to rouse her. _

I tried sending the boys telepathic messages to follow my example – and so far, they seemed to be receiving them with ease. It was something I usually did, but never with much success, or expectation of it working. I had no powers of my own, neither did Dean, or Sam. Only Sharika did, and boy was that fun explaining. Well…it would have been…had we done so yet. We hadn't. It's kind of a hard thing to tell hunters. Speaking of…the Winchesters were sitting in silence for once also – without it being of the tense, strained variety; Dean probably feeling smug over that last comment he'd made to get her to this state, and Sam probably just tired and hungry, or over-thinking something again. He did so much of that, I wondered how he ever got anything done.

So, all in all, everything was going as smooth as crunchy peanut butter. We were all sitting quietly, waiting for a waitress to come and take our orders, and we were all in silence. I should really be used to it by now – but even if I ever did get used to it, _I'd still hate it. _

There were still silences with me and Sharika – every time we were alone, really. I never knew what to say to her – what I _could_ say to her. And then were the disappointments I'd suffered from crushed potential on what I'd thought, vaguely of, when introducing this plan to everyone at the start. I had thought at least Sammy and Sharika would get along, or maybe, on an offbeat chance, Dean and Sharika since they were so similar. I don't think I could have been more wrong in my assumptions – but then, my thoughts had been pretty clouded by optimism, and confused by each new turn of events. If only they'd all get over themselves. Stupid idiots and them being mad at her for god knows what reason, and stupid her for just – for just being _her_.

Why can't the three most important people in my life right now just get along? Would it really be all that hard for everyone to get over themselves, and stop getting on each others nerves and attacking each other like rabid dogs? I mean, why were they really so mad? Sure, protecting me was an issue, like John had told them to – but from my own emotions? It was going a _little_ overboard, and if I could accept and try to forgive Sharika, what the hell was their problem? And her – she was starting to – _starting to?!_ – piss me off with her silent, though obviously infuriated, reception of everything they threw at her. The old Sharika was never so whipped.

Why can't they just make nice, at least for me? Sharika must be tolerating what the boys were doing for me – at least, that was the most rational reason, right? Maybe it's just my own wishes making me think that… And what the hell was going on with her and John, in any case?!

OH MY GOD!! They're having an affair!!

I giggled silently to myself behind the menu. Not even a miniscule possibility, that one. Sharika wasn't the type to screw around until she got married – it tied her back to her family and culture, made her feel closer to them to follow Bengali traditions, like no fucking around. And John – John would always be hung up over his wife. She was his obsession.

This all lead me back to the boys and them being their unusually testosterone-y, dickhead selves. Sure, Dean and I got on each others nerves, and Sam and I paid each other out until we bled, but they were never this persistent in their nastiness.

I was thinking all wisely – though not exactly rationally (it's me) – about this, when she came over.

By now I was definitely used to chicks coming over and thrusting their boobs in Dean's face – LIES, ALL LIES I WISH THEY'D GO SUFFOCATE THEMSELVES IN THEIR OWN CLEAVAGE – but Sharika was not accustomed to getting it shoved in her face also. This chick's rack was either so big that it was disproportional to the rest of her body and wider than she was tall – enhanced stick bug – or that's how narrow the table was, because she was thrusting it in Dean's face, but it still managed to get in Sharika's way, as she was sitting opposite him. I'm betting on a combination of both elements.

Well, I would be, but right now it's probably safer to hide under the table.

_Avoid the wrath in all its wrath-y-ness. _

"What can I do you for?" the woman practically purred, and I felt a bubble of laughter rise in my throat, surfing on a tide of upchuck. Could she be any _more_ like the other billion waitresses we come into contact with?

I saw Sharika's grip tighten around her fork and felt my own body pull taut – I could practically see her wanting to deflate the woman's bust by popping it with the sharp fork – and then I breathed a silent sigh of relief as she let it go. It meant she wasn't going to attack anyone physically at least. Normally she's not one up for physical attacks, but who knows what happened to her in that one year? And anyways, some of my own insanity and repressed violent tendencies had to have rubbed off on her when we were best friends.

Sammy ordered his truckers meal, with tomatoes and wholemeal toast, coffee, white, and I choked back my laughter as she seemed to get the pad and pen to write it on from out of her bust. Then I realised it had come out of the swallowed up pocket of her apron, and coughed loudly, covering my lower face up with my hands. It wasn't any less funny, as it seemed to be designed to get men to stare at her appendages. If only I had that kind of 'look at me, look at me' courage. _Then maybe Dean would –_

"I'll have a coffee – black – and a blueberry muffin, thanks," I said, and tried to avoid the woman's eye, in case I started 'coughing' again. _Think about something else…coffee…mmm…black as night, sweet as love and hot as hell – exactly as coffee should be. _

She turned to take Shar's order next, leaving Dean for last so she could mindlessly and shamelessly flirt with him as long as she wanted, and that's when the woman pretty much hit Sharika in the face with her left breast. Immediately all thoughts of laughing were gone – for right now anyway, I mean, I'd look back later – but now –

Sharika jerked backwards, obviously trying to avoid getting stabbed in the eye by a nipple – and I tore my gaze away from this hilariously dangerous sight to observe the Winchesters' reactions. Sam was, of course, greatly amused, and the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth was usually reserved for when Dean got himself in shit. Dean's reaction was a smile fighting to break free too – although I could tell how envious he was. Him and his breast fetish. Asshole – I mean, seriously, at least go for the _passably _natural lookingones.

Sharika looked up from dodging cleavage to stare Dean straight in the eye. As soon as she opened her mouth, I knew there was going to be trouble. "Hey, Dean, look, this woman has surgically enhanced features practically falling out of that top she's wearing. See them Dean? Can you?" Sharika asked, in a loud, cheerful voice, her eyes blazing with the rage she's contained for the past two weeks as she ignores the woman who'd just frozen with her '_enhanced-features' _pressed into Dean's face.

He spluttered a little; I guess he really didn't know what to say. In his situation, I wouldn't either. He wants the breasts, he likes the breasts. What male wouldn't? Half the guys here were staring down her top whilst she was taking their orders anyway, instead of looking her in the eye. She didn't seem to mind much, she actually seemed to _enjoy_ the attention. Then again, it must have been the reaction she was aiming for when she chose to wear that top. _Ugh, skank…_ But Dean can't be so very obvious as to _admit_ that he likes the breasts, it's not his style. I hid my smirk, pulling the menu up again, until only my eyes and the top of my head were visible.

I couldn't _wait _to see how he reacted to _this._

"Uh, how could I not see them?" Dean quickly recovered, trying to be suave, and giving the woman – _ah, that's her name, Sally_ – an apologetic look and his most blinding smile.

Sharika smiles at him – a tight smile that I recognised in myself, when I was trying to bury my anger in sarcasm, and then turns back to Sally. "Okay, he's accepted the fact that they are huge, so have I, and I can safely assume everyone else at this table has too." I nodded obligingly when she looked at me, and Sam just shrugged, nodding too. When she looked back up at Sally, Sam and I shared a look, layered with all our laughter and delight in this situation, partaking in a common emotion on the basis of Sharika for once. "And now we've all moved on, I suggest you do the same. Goodbye now."

When she'd gone I laughed and laughed and laughed. "Did you see the look on her face?" I choked out, and then, "I don't think we'll be getting our food now…" More laughing.

Sammy was struggling not to do the same – like me he'd had to put up with women throwing themselves at Dean like this in similar fashions; and for years longer than me. I can't imagine how many times he's wanted to do something like Sharika has; I for one have lost count over the three and a half months.

Dean tried to berate her of course, being all high and mighty and stick up the ass. She just narrowed her eyes at him, a perfect scorn forming on her face almost automatically as she said – "I'm sorry, it seems like I am misplacing my anger on the first person who bothers me, no matter how unrelated to the initial matter she is, while I ignore the bigger issues I have. Do _you_ know anyone who does that Dean?"

At this, I just laughed some more, secretly agreeing with her unspoken allegations. The boys shut up after that.

AN: The next chapter is quite, quite angsty, and, if I say so myself, very good. Can't wait to update, so it may be one of my early ones. Depends on how eager you guys are for it. Lol. BECAUSE THE TRUTH COMES OUT. XD As always, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. It was one of my more fun ones to write. Okie dokie pokie. Peace.


	15. Decimate Them Like You Did To Me

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

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15. Decimate Them Like You Did To Me

_Since knowledge is but sorrow's spy, it is not safe to know._

_-- William Davenant_

She'd gone out for a run after they'd all settled in at the hotel – though she had a pretty fast metabolism, and hunts burned any surplus that might cling to hips, buttocks or stomach, sitting in a car, motionless for a good percentage of the day was not the best way to keep from getting out of condition. And besides, she liked the freedom it gave her – the sense of escaping everything for a short time; responsibilities, emotions, people and all their impossible-to-grant wishes.

At times it will be like that gap, that year that still hasn't be bridged between the two women, never even existed. They will be talking, laughing about something completely and utterly random, just as they used to – and then she'll feel the shields slam up as the dark woman makes an offhand comment that hits too close to their own situation, or how she feels. And from then onwards, it will be awkward and stilted again until she makes a peace offering. And it's still hard for her to do that – it's too close to like admitting weakness.

She sees that the other woman tries to be patient, tries to understand, but at the same time she's struggling with the boys and their prejudices against her. She knows that the dark female thinks it's about them misplacing their anger onto her, but the other woman still isn't one hundred percent sure. _Its part that_, she thinks, long strides eating up the pavement, _and part their instinctual protective impulses towards her. But it still doesn't make a lot of sense_. It's her problem to deal with, and she knows that Sharika doesn't need even more of a hard time than she's already giving her. She's almost told Sam and Dean this how many times now? They wouldn't just waive her off if she made an effort – she knows this. But some blockage in the back of her mind stops her – part of her own longing to make the other woman endure something akin to what she went through perhaps? She knew that the more selfish part of her wanted the other woman to suffer, felt that she deserved it – but she couldn't bring herself to do it, she didn't have the courage or the conviction, didn't have the freedom the boys did, baggage of years of everything weighing her down so that she still couldn't bring herself to harm the other woman when she was in her right mind. That's why she didn't stop the brothers.

It still feels as though allowing them to do this, without asking her permission or something, is parallel to her being treated as a little kid still. With the three of them doing it now, she can almost _feel_ herself adapting. She still hates it, though. She's older than two of them, for god's sake. She can take care of herself, if only they'd realise this fact. She'd been doing it before she met the Winchesters, before she met Sharika even. She was a warrior. Independent. Strong. Can they still not see that? Is all they see, this smiling, too innocent, angelic face – blonde curls, bowed lips, golden and hazel green eyes? Can they not see beneath the exterior? Do they not know her, herself, at all?

She ponders on this as she places a palm against her side, where a stitch stabs mercilessly – a good pain, an honest one. Thoughts racing as fast as she had, over the same old track, just as her physical body had come in a circle back to the motel. She was breathless, and had worked up a good sweat. It clung to her chest and back, her upper lip and her forehead, matting down tiny, loose flyaway curls that have come out of her high ponytail. As well as having checked out the town they were in and having looked around for anything suspicious – she had the feeling that their new hunt was not all it seemed – she now felt far looser, and her muscles flowed with a grace she hadn't felt for what seems like forever, an extended period of time with out respite or gauge. Being cramped all together in limited space, physically, and in every other imaginable way was not good for anything – muscles, atmospheres...the list was repetitive, but endless.

The sun is still in the middle of the sky as she pulls to a stop outside the motel door, trying to catch her breath, forehead pressed against the wood, just below the number that informed everyone who wished to know what room it was. She'd been running for a good hour and a half, fast as she could, pushing her limits, and now she was tired and happy, the endorphins racing through her blood sending her into a slowly downward spiralling high, and perching an exhausted smile on her mouth.

_In…out…_she thought to herself, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth softly, regularising the pattern. _In…out…when she goes in she has to have a shower… in…out… change to go to the library with Dean to research…in… out…she's so glad she ran, 'cause now she has to do more sitting on her ass…in…out…_

And then she heard the voices.

They were fighting again.

The smile melted away to be replaced with a sad frown. Could they not go a single day without being at each others' throats, teeth bared and eyes filmed with red anger and frustration? Maybe it was about the thing with the waitress at breakfast, this time. She wondered how many times she had missed these fights, the ones that went on behind her back, so she didn't know the extent of their contempt for each other – the extent of their negativity. This scared her a little – it was something in her life she couldn't control, and this worried her more than she was willing to admit. Stability, balance, patterns and predictability had always made her feel safer in her ever-changing world, and when she couldn't calculate an outcome with erratic and temperamental variables such as these – the Winchesters, Sharika – involved, it made her nervous, her skin beneath her skin start to itch, places where she couldn't reach to scratch. Little things that were spontaneous were fine, enjoyed even – but big things like this, things that could tip the scales of her future so low at a moments notice – well, she hated them. Hated them with a quiet, secret passion that no one knew of. And never would. It was why she herself was often so unpredictable – to make up for this fundamental aspect of her personality.

Shaking her head, the sorrow and resentment pulling her usually smiling pink lips into an unhappy line, she turns away from the door – only for her ears to distinguish words from the unintelligible sounds that had been coming out of it.

"Look," she hears the dark woman exclaim, her tone completely exasperated and flat, giving up on a solitary battle. It was different from anything she'd ever heard. She sounded angry – tense – at the end of her previously fraying tether. She only ever sounded like this when she'd decided to throw all caution to the wind, and not care what anyone thought of her anymore. She was getting her points across,_ no matter what_. "I've had _enough_ of your hostile attitudes towards me. I'd get it if I actually _deserve_ it but I don't. Since the day we've met you two have been completely vicious and total jackasses to me. I just can't take it anymore! All this time I've held my tongue, not saying anything at all, and avoiding conflict, and actually _trying_ to be _nice_ to you two even though both of you have kept your minds set against me. I don't want trouble. I'm just sick and tired of it. Enough is enough. You two don't even have a valid reason to despise me."

She hears the older boy scoff, his quiet reply making it impossible for her to differentiate singular words, and the low rumble of his voice mashing the syllables together even further. She hears footsteps and can imagine him pacing across the room, long legged, graceful strides cramped in the two narrow spaces, frustration crowding his body as effectively as the room must be, a panther caged and prowling. She can see his hazel eyes narrowing on the woman, refusing to back down and be trodden over as though he is dirt – he takes no crap from anyone except his father, especially from those he has little or no respect for and could show that too. Sure, if it was for a job he could hide it, act with the best of them. But in reality he was sometimes as see through as plastic wrap, at least to her. She can see it in her mind, older boy pacing, younger one sitting or standing somewhere, immobile; a hushed sentinel observing the scene. His blue green eyes processing everything with lightning speed, either trained onto the setting and its characters, watching the proceedings with unabashed interest, or pretending not to, brows drawn down to shade his thoughts, perhaps his arms crossed, or his hands playing with something. The woman will be immobile, fists clenched at her sides, brown eyes burning with inner fire, shaping her next words in her head so they give just the right amount, and no more away – even in fights she is controlled and rational; she strives never to be caught off guard. Her powers give her little freedom to express herself, she has learnt her limits and is sure to always keep her emotions in check and contained – the probability that she might hurt someone if her telekinesis lashes out is medium to high. The only word the eavesdropper can be sure of is her name, and as she presses her ear firmer against the grubby white door, she hears the other woman interrupt – her own voice louder and clearer, the faint accent clipping the words off so they are easy to understand.

"I know you think I did this horrible thing to Lauren – who's probably like a sister to you two by now – but you guys aren't even giving me a _chance_ to explain myself. _I DIDN'T WANT_ to leave her. Lauren's the most important person in my life; she's like a sister to me too. And I've known her since seven years back. We went through practically everything together. She's the only family I have. And now, she probably hates me more than you two, which most people wouldn't even think is possible."

Outside of the room she feels her lower lip start to tremble; she had viewed the other woman in such a light for those six years they'd been together as well – a sister, family. Far more than just a comrade or a best friend. It gave her a warm glow to know that she hadn't been alone in these feelings, to know that the other woman felt the same way she did, although why she would be bringing it up in a fight with the Winchesters was beyond her. Her mind jumps onto the other things the woman had said – she didn't _hate _the other woman, did she? She was just confused, still messed up inside and needing to sort it out. So the time she'd been taking had been viewed as loathing? It had never been her intention.

She made to sweep into the room, and splinter these thoughts into the rubbish and mistruths that they were – but then she heard the dark woman's next speech, and it stole all her breath, answering questions she had dared not ask, and splintering all her own misconceptions. _How could she have been so blind? _

"You want to know why I left her? It's because _your_ father told me to. _Your_ father, John Winchester, Mr. Supernatural himself! He instructed me to leave her without a word. He's the one who helped me disappear." She feels all conscious thought leave her head, and slumps even further against the door, all resistance to gravity leaving her body as she crumbles to the ground. "I would have told Lauren about it but she would have just rejected the idea point blank. She would have called me heartless for even thinking about leaving her. She's too much of an optimist; at least she used to be. Not anymore. Even if I had tried to leave, having told her everything, she probably would have hid herself in the truck of my car and then bitched about how horrible and hot and uncomfortable it was, with some object sticking into her back like a teenage boy's…I'm sure you're familiar with her analogy, to me afterwards. You know how she is. It's Lauren after all."

She imagines the boys nodding, their mouths twisting in begrudging smiles as they think on her. They all think they know her so well, know what she's like. Any amusement vanishes in the face of the impact of the other, far more important, sentences. She feels the breathing that was knocked out of her come back in harsh, wheezing pants that clog in her throat and stick to the sides of her oesophagus like honey, or tar. She is no longer a person, rather an instrument whose only purpose is listening, eavesdropping, and learning the things that broke her apart into millions of tiny pieces – useless, without any hope of being glued back together.

_Why? Why would John do that to her? For what purpose? Then again, _the woman reprimands herself, for ever thinking that anyone would care for her as she'd wished, really, _it's not as though she was his daughter, as she often thought of herself. She was just one student in a line of an indistinguishable number of them. She wasn't special, or different. She shouldn't wish to be treated as such. _

As though answering her unspoken question, the dark woman inside the motel room continues her rant. "The reason your father told me to leave her goes back to when I was twelve going on thirteen. I received a letter from a demon stating that if I didn't leave my family then he would make me suffer greatly by hurting them. This happened three days before my thirteenth birthday. I showed the letter to my parents and they just waved it off as some sick twisted joke, and we all moved on with our lives and eventually, with all the preparation for my birthday party, after all I'd be an official teenager then, we all forgot about the threat. I mean honestly, who would take that letter seriously?" The dark woman's voice becomes strained and tight as she continues on with her story, so filled with emotion and weighed down with truth that the broken, blonde thing outside wonders how she could not have been drowned from it's heaviness by now. She had had the edited version from her years ago; they'd swapped their sob stories. But of course, each kept out the more personal, gruesome details. Reliving trauma was for people with time to shatter and repair themselves, not for hunters. She envisions what the woman would look like now – face turned away from the boys, towards the wall so they cannot view her expression. She hears the creak and groan of wood under pressure, the taller boy moving forwards on his chair? The shuffling footsteps stop – and the image of the older boy fills her mind's eye – tall, strong, unreachable as he looks at the woman, waiting for her to continue. These positions are the ones typical to business mode; she can see them now so clearly, it is as though she is in the room with them. Outside the door her fingernails scrabble on the wood silently for purchase, and her cheek presses against it, the cold wood rough against her soft skin. Her eyes are closed, the better to listen.

"Then the morning of my birthday I woke up late, which was surprising then because it was a school day and my dad should have woken me up. I got out of bed to get breakfast when I noticed my parent's work bags and suitcases on the floor. That indicated that they were at home, not at work. I thought that they allowed me to stay home; since it was my birthday, and they were gonna stay home from work so they could celebrate with me. So I ran into their room to claim my present when I saw them…they were…my parent's heads were just….never mind…you won't be interested in that." The pieces imagine her taking a shaky breath, containing her emotions as a pause filters through the wood, the boys with their heads cocked forwards, eyes trained to search for any detail that they might otherwise have missed. The pieces see their eyes widen as these revelations hit home. "Let's just say that they were dead, I'll spare you the gruesome details. On the wall, smeared with a combination of their blood, were the words _'I warned you'_."

_I warned you. _The pieces mouth the words, body straining against the barrier of the door, soaking in every word, every truth that they should not be hearing, but cannot bring themselves to pull away from. The pieces crumble a little more, at the sorrow of the dark woman's story. _It cannot possibly get any worse._

How wrong the pieces were.

"Well, about a year ago I got the same letter, this time regarding Lauren." _That demon was after her too…?_ "I called your father since he'd be the wisest choice to ask, him having a far wider knowledge in this area than both of us had put together, and he would be completely unbiased, and far more likely to make the best decision for everyone. He knew about my parents. He knew the demon who massacred them. We took that letter seriously this time. What other choice did we have? I definitely wasn't going to risk it ever happening again. Not after…no way, not a chance. I'd already made that mistake once. He told me to abandon her then. I had to leave pretty much instantly, seeing as how the demon had only given me three days to get away the first time."

_He told me to abandon her then. He told me to abandon her then. John…had told her – _John_ had told her to…no. No, it couldn't – it couldn't – _Somewhere inside she recognises the truth in the female's words – feels the click as all the missing puzzle pieces click into place, only to shatter her all over again. _A demon was after her, exclusively? What the hell could she have done to merit such a fate? Sure…killing it's kind, being a hunter, and such and such…but that didn't immediately put her down as a candidate for murder in the supernatural world – there were plenty of people who did the same thing she did. Demons didn't have personal vendettas – that was for humans and vengeful spirits. Demons were above such irrationality. And a demon that even John couldn't seem to handle or track – otherwise he would have taken care of it by now, and the threat would have been over. This was new territory – something that the two women would never have been able to deal with by themselves. They were far too inexperienced, despite their years of hunting and vanquishing various supernatural beings. There must have been another solution though – anything would have been preferable to the unknown she'd suffered through. Sure, it had succeeded before, and done away with the dark woman's parents. And now it was after her. Was she going to die, with so much left unfinished? Was it going to come after her again – was it still? _

She felt her heart struggle for a second against the crushing blackness of her betrayal and despair, her confusion – and then it gave in.

"Haven't you ever wondered why your dad called you two out of the blue and told you to look after some random student of his? Hasn't it ever crossed your minds?" The pieces know how the boys would react then – sending each other a silent, speaking look, like they often did to convey private messages. They had wondered, and now that the reason had been revealed, they weren't sure what to think, what to believe.

"I couldn't tell Lauren that the man she practically worships, the closest figure she has to a father told me to do that, it'd crush her. And she doesn't deserve that. She deserves the best. It's _Lauren_; I know you two understand that. It'd be better for her to keep her faith in someone, in something, rather than lose it all when she learns about my pathetic past. She can't go on being hollow and numb."

The boys try to make some token resistance, but the dark woman rides over their pathetic attempts, an endless stream of cold, brutal truth. All that the smashed up woman pieces think, with some kind of sadistic, dark pleasure, is about how well the other woman knows her. It doesn't even leave a mark on the black.

"But none of that matters with you two. If I hadn't left, if I had stayed with Lauren you would still have hated me and called me irresponsible, selfish and without concern for my best friend's safety. I just can't _win_ with you two. No matter what I do it's wrong in your eyes. But this isn't even about that. It's not about Lauren; it's not even about me. It's about you two dumping your own unresolved issues with your father on me. He abandoned you two suddenly without a word, and now he's sending you all over the country doing his bitch work for him. It's _not_ my fault, and nor should it have to be my problem."

_So that's why…_the woman thinks to herself. _Why they were so strong in their defences and attacks – they weren't only protecting her, but themselves. A way to relieve their frustrations against a figure that represents their father in their eyes. _

It's plausible, she supposes, if a little unlike them.

"Look, if you want me to, I'll just leave." These words, along with the others from the boys – less important ones about leaving Lauren again, about what that would do to her this time, a second dose of abandonment, selfishness – all of it washes over her in waves and crests of hurtful dark blue. It splashes over the black wall of her numbness like careless spray paint, flicking the hurt onto the black with careless, casual lack of inhibition. The pieces cannot acknowledge it from inside the barriers, and so the hurt is left to dry and flake, something to wonder at another time, admire the pretty patterns and bruises it has left, where they cannot be easily seen. They'll sink into the black soon enough, indistinguishable except to the most attentive of viewers. "Who says I won't see her again? If she wants to come with me, that's great. If she wants to stay she can stay, I'll still keep in contact with her. It's up to her, it's her decision. I'm not going to force her into anything this time, or ever again."

A dent appears in the wall. _Freedom, free will, trust._ But from inside, it strengthens again as the pieces push against it, refusing to be open, to believe again. Part of her recognises the painful honesty in the woman's voice – her word, her promise. But the dark woman could always have changed within that year they were apart – god knows _she_ had, and this small part that hoards her doubt overrides all else, helped along by the self defence mechanism._ Never trust anyone but yourself, especially those who offer you what you most desire._

The boys argue about their father, who gave them instructions for the dark woman to travel with them. They go on and on about what their father said, as though it is gospel spilled from the mouth of an angel, not the roughened verse of an obsessed old man, a hunter, a warrior, who can make mistakes just like any mortal man. Why the taller boy presses this point is beyond the woman's shattered pieces. He's never been a one to follow blindly where his old man ventures, but in this he is just as much of a mindless soldier as his brother, a clone, a disciple of the great John Winchester. _Why now? _

"I listened to John once before and look where the consequences of that have led to. The only person in the world, who cared for me, hates me. Has changed for the worse, because of me. Look, John isn't my father. I don't have to listen to him."

The lingering impact of these irrefutable facts creates a silence that thickens and stagnates in the room, like ancient milk left forgotten on the sink. It's obvious that as yet, there is no more to be said, or that the occupants will allow themselves to say, at least. The pieces of woman pick themselves up and shove themselves together in some semblance of order, something that will pass for normalcy, something they won't be able to see straight through.

A misshapen woman, battered by all the truths and dark paint emerges to put her hand against the door knob, breathing in a deep inhalation, unlike any she's been able to have for this session of tell-all. No wonder she'd had the feeling she couldn't hack it if she knew, if she found out too soon. She had been right.

Imagining that it was her who had caused Sharika to leave – that was hard enough; but for it to be the one other person she had trusted in her world, the betrayal cut so deep it left a gash as wide as her arm was long in her chest – bleeding and fraying at the edges, like her tightly gripped control. _John. John – it was far worse than anything else she could possibly have imagined. Not only her best friend leaving her, seemingly without a second thought, despite how she protested she hadn't wished to – but John as well, her mentor suggesting it, as though she was as easily discarded as rubbish. Below even the lowest levels of consideration. _

Fat lot of good the knowledge did her now.

She enters the room, pretending to pant and smile at the occupants in the room, tucking some hair behind her ear and bouncing on the balls of her feet. She can act happy, she can act oblivious and like she's only just come back from her run. Hell, she's been doing it a lifetime. "What's up guys?" she trills into the tense atmosphere, and she's looked over for any signs of knowledge of what has just take place.

The taller boy is stretched thin all over, emotions barely held in check. She can see this by his tense body posture – the rigidity in his tall, lanky frame. Shoulders braced against anything that might yet be said, and everything that had been. His eyes burn a deep blue, and his fists clench, fingernails digging into vulnerable palms with the effort of keeping back his own opinions and words in front of the blonde woman – they still wish to keep her in the dark about all that had just surpassed, and it suits, as much as it stings. She's been in the dark so long, why should they change their policies now?

The dark woman has deflated; everything that has kept her wound up and strong and resistant has been let loose now, freeing her as well as tying her even further into this situation, even if she can't see that yet. Her shoulders are slumped, eyelids drooping over chocolate eyes to shield them and any wayward thoughts from view, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. When she ever did decide to head straight into conflict she gave it everything she could allow herself to, and damn the consequences. It was up to the boys to react now, as she's said her part. This calm acceptance underlies the fatigue, and the other woman views it with eyes that burn from unshed tears. She wasn't supposed to have witnessed this outburst – would she have ever had such honesty had she asked?

The older boy is even farther gone than the two others put together. He is a smouldering ball of barely contained fury and resentment and denials – liable to explode at the next casual perception tearing comment. He'd built up this safe, secure world, but the dark woman has torn it down, revealing him for what he is. His very aura crackles with what he is repressing, his whole body giving evidence to the conflict he contains. Fallen angel eyes, greener than green, are flamed with all these emotions that stretch him full to bursting, and hardly blink – and his jaw is tense as tempered steel, keeping everything – especially the angry words, the accusations – in check.

He barks at the woman, "Lauren, library, now!"

The pieces sigh out loud, playing their part; the mask slips over to completely cover real features as they become the exasperated, disinterested, carefree woman. "Do I get a choice?" she asks sarcastically.

"No."

"A shower?"

"Two minutes."

She takes even less, and when the two of them leave, she doesn't look back.

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AN: I HAD HAD HAD to post this one early, so then I can post the next chapter on sunday... you'll see. Just so you know - I'm grinning - evilly. Tell me what you think about the 'big secret' Sharika was hiding, and everything. Because I'd love to know how you guys took it. And the whole, description thing I had going - was it emotional enough? Was it too emotional? Too much description? I love feedback, and could use any help. Thanks. Peace.


	16. Ending But Somewhere To Start

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

000

16. Ending but Somewhere to Start

_It is easier to resist at the beginning than at the end._

_-- Leonardo da Vinci_

You sat in the Impala, the impact and taint of too many words marking your skin so dark you were shocked that the elder boy couldn't see it, couldn't feel the change in you – couldn't sense the wall that had slammed up, an enclosure against everything in the world. Then again, maybe he did. Maybe he just didn't care.

It was numb inside the barrier, numb and warm and cold at the same time; some sort of oxymoron, like a freezing burn, or a burning freeze, until you could see in the side view mirror that your cheeks were flushed a murky rose, but your body was shaking all over. The only thing you could relate it to was a fever in the blood – all encompassing, stealing every logical conclusion and thought from your head as they came into existence, and sweating it all out to dirty your skin again.

Not that you were capable of reasoning, or thought at this moment – everything was just washing through your brain, scrambling it and wringing it out, and tumble drying it until it had shrunken into something that was barely recognisable enough to be compared to the initial idea.

_John…John and Sharika…and demon and letter…and John…and black. _

Dean pulled to a sharp stop outside the library, breathing harsh and barely controlled, and you wondered at his reaction, and then remembered. In the middle of your selfish brain freeze, you'd forgotten anyone else may have been touched by what she'd said. Sharika had cut him right down to the barest part of him, to his core – his own father's abandonment and unquestionable orders, sending him off, what was it, _'to do his bitch work'?_ He hated to be vulnerable – hated it worse than anything else in his world, except that which threatened those he loved. And if it were possible, even more than he hated feeling this emotion, was having anyone witness it, realise it, incite it like she had.

This was shown in his silent stillness – and you couldn't help feeling that it was definitely the calm before the storm – or, if he managed to restrict it all – at least the warning of a possibly violent and fatal storm ahead. The bruised clouds on the horizon, perhaps. His frivolous eyelashes were shuttered over burning hazel windows, and his head rested against the rim of the steering wheel between his hands as he gathered the reins that tethered his emotions. You wondered for a second if you should play further into your part and ask what was wrong; but the irregular breaths he pulled in through his nose and mouth warned you against it. If he couldn't even get his breathing pattern habitual, you shouldn't chance setting him off. He slowly breathed in and out, and you watched in silence as his body relaxed. It was all a part he was playing, but you let him. You knew how important the masks were, and hypocrisy wasn't exactly your style.

Everyone wore masks.

He was probably as raw as you were right now – you asked yourself, _why would he bring you with him?_ Doesn't he want to be alone to sort this out? It was what he usually did when confronted with something that hit too close to the truth – he went for a solitary drive in his Impala late at night, and Sam slept, unconcerned, while you paced the room, worried for his safety in his state of mind. At least, that's how it had been. _What was different now?_

Maybe he was trying to prolong the time until Sharika would make you choose.

Maybe he was worried that you'd go with her.

_Did you want to? What if you did? What if you left it all behind? Would you be able to forget? Would you be able to dodge the memories and the lingering wishes and the lies and the orders and every law ever set down by John Winchester? They were an integral part of you by now. What would Dean do if you did, if you left? Would he care? Would he follow? Or would he let you go? _

Of course, if you did leave, it'd be going against his father's wishes, and Dean was uncomfortable with that under the best of circumstances. He'd ask his father what he should do – at least, you imagined so. What John would reply – _if_ he replied – now that was a question you were dying to know the answer to.

"Come on," he growls finally, hopping out of the car, and beneath his loose exterior you can see he's all red energy and crackling emotions. He's slamming the door in your face, both metaphorically and physically, and you try not to wince. He doesn't know the damage he does, after all.

You get out on the other side, quiet and stilling the shaking from everything. But he doesn't even look at you – still hasn't since you entered the motel room, scarcely ten minutes ago. He strides into the library, and you follow him, barely keeping up with his elongated, powerful gait. You don't say anything though, so by the time you've pushed through the glass doors he's already chatting up the librarian, so that she will help him find what he's looking for. That's how he deals with his issues – he digs himself deep inside his work, evading and repressing everything else that threatens to screw his calm over. Denying it, denying the truth.

Sometimes you realise you two are so alike it's scary. That's exactly how you deal with your problems. But you soon push the thought away.

The librarian was a sweet looking brunette, shorter than you, which you'd long ago deemed impossible for people over the age of thirteen. But the lack in height was more than made up for with the cutest smile, and – you learnt from the perverted look Dean shot back at you, and his silently mouthed comment – ass. You followed her through the library, trying to distract yourself from your personal problems with the hunt; considering the information you'd gathered so far from all the angles you could. But other thoughts kept intruding – like how amiable Dean could be to other women – _it was for work, but you still couldn't understand the ease of it_ – despite the fact it was obvious to you he was as livid as a tiger on fire; ones about what such a powerful demon could possibly want with _you_; and John – but you tried not to think about that too much.

_What were you looking for here again? That's right… _Historical records on Rosemary James – a woman who'd been murdered thirty two years ago, and who Dean suspected of knocking off other women in the area. You weren't so sure that Dean's hypothesis on your newest hunt was correct as you sorted through the bare details you'd learnt inside your head.

The families of the women who had been killed had mentioned that the victims had reported seeing a decapitated woman – in their dreams, in their gardens – all of whom had the same description; a fair, white woman with flowing red hair and glowing green eyes – but the families just put it down to stress, of course. You and Dean, you guessed, were going to try and I.D. the woman the victims had seen, although he was already pretty certain it was Rosemary, considering she was the only person in this perfect little town who'd suffered a violent death in all its history. Well, except for her personal gardener, who'd killed himself from grief when he'd discovered her body. All reports about him said that he'd been having an affair with Ms James – who seemed to have her very own Mrs Robinson thing going on.

The librarian left you with stacked boxes of records, and a last smile and comment to Dean, telling him that if he needed anything, anything _at all_, wink, to just give her a shout out. You rolled your eyes, and shook your head, pulling the nearest book out of the nearest box, and opening it on the table before you as you sat down. Dean did the same – minus the eyes rolling – and you both got to work.

As you both went on, and the long hours passed, all the information you'd compiled niggled at the huntress side of your brain. Something about this whole thing just didn't add up. Every new fact just heaped on top of the other ones until you pushed the papers aside in frustration.

"Dean," you whispered over the dark wooden table top, and he looked up from his stacks of notes at you. He was still zinging with his repressed emotions – sitting and reading was not the thing to get him calm, you knew that. Kicking ass was his relaxation technique.

"What?"

"You really think its Rosemary James committing these murders?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I just…I just have this feeling…"

"Look," he said, moving forwards onto his arms across the table, eyes meeting yours. His body was underlining the 'patience' he was showing you, a favour, giving you his valuable time to explain something you should already know. It was deceptively relaxed and open looking, everything loose and smiling, but still you could see the core pissed-off-ed-ness, as you knew he could just as easily read your body language. He ticked off his reasons on his fingers as he listed them, the tone of his voice just bordering on condescending, and effortlessly riling you up. "Died a violent death – the only one around this part, by all accounts. Families of the victims tell us that they saw her spirit before they carked it. Her house is in the dead centre of all the houses that have been attacked. Who else could it have been?"

"I don't _know_ Dean!" you said, voice now at a normal speaking level, rather than the level accepted in the library's environment. The people around you shot you looks from under their brows, shook a head at their book, and then got back to their own fucking business. You hunched your shoulders up, in your turn moving closer to him across the table. Shooting a look around the quiet room again, you lowered your voice to a mutter, eyeing his hands rather than looking into his face. His hands were big and clean, tanned a deep brown with large calluses around his thumb and palm, where he'd handled guns and knives and shovels all his life. You loved his hands; you could practically imagine seeing them against the pale skin of your stomach, your breasts, his long, clever fingers gliding across your scars, his mouth following. You jerked your eyes away from them, into his. How pathetic was it that his fucking _hands_ could turn you on, make you go warm all _over_ – when you were _working_ in a _public_ _place_, and you'd just had your every idea about your life pretty much smashed up into little pieces, shoved into a small, dirty box and handed back to you without so much as a sorry note sticky-taped to the top? It was _beyond _pathetic. "Look, I just – I have this feeling, like it's _not_ her. I can't explain it." Flustered, you couldn't clarify the instinct that nagged at the edges of your awareness, something that you kept prodding at; like a kid with a loose tooth.

"Well, until you do can we stick with the facts?" he asked, tone patronizing, and mouth turned down at the corners. He moved his eyes back to his book, and leant back in his chair, away from you.

"Dean!" you hissed. He ignored you. Louder. "Dean!" Louder. "_Dean!_"

"_Shh_!" someone hissed near you, and you jerked your head around to shoot them a glare. It was a thick woman, with short hair and thick, wire rimmed glasses. She stared straight back at you, lips pursed and nostrils white, until finally she backed down, and looked back at her book.

You took this opportunity to yell, "_DEAN_!" at the top of your voice, and with an unhealthy amount of satisfaction. You watched with a smile and innocent look down at Dean – you were standing now – as every head in the library turned towards you, including that of the person who you were calling.

"What?" he hissed, darting glances at everyone and smiling apologetically. _Please ignore her, go back to what you were doing, nothing to see here. _Part of the job was to not be noticed, but at the moment _you couldn't fucking_ _care_. For one, he was pissing you off, by being so close minded. It was one of the worst things a person could do around you, besides being controlling or patronising. You _hated_ it. You believed in acceptance, in people being allowed to have their own thoughts and feelings and beliefs without being judged or criticised. And Dean, _Dean_ was being so closed minded it rubbed your skin raw, and red. You'd have expected _him_ to understand those unexplainable feelings that hunters sometimes got in the middle of a hunt by now. When Sam got them, whatever he was doing he did what Sam suggested. There was bitching and '_what if you're wrong_'s and '_this would be so much easier if we just_'s, but he always did it. Even _he_ got them, and sometimes he was so closed off from feeling anything outside the planes of physical existence that it shocked you he was so brilliant at his job. For another, _you just didn't like being ignored._

You reached across the table, grabbing his shirt and jerking his face close to yours. Everyone was still watching you, you could see them out of the corner of your eye, staring and whispering amongst themselves, feel their eyes like crawling spiders on your back. You put your mouth right up next to his ear and muttered, your voice soft and sweetly menacing, "You may think you know it all Dean, but I think, if nothing else, Sharika's speeches earlier proved that wrong. Yes, I heard you." You smiled against the shell of his ear, and you knew he could tell. He'd frozen as soon as you'd admitted to knowing about the fight – a self preservation instinct? Shock? You just hadn't been able to keep it in you any longer, you'd been keeping so many things inside that it was only a matter of time that something would escape – and the fact that it was _this_ and that you knew it would shut him up just made it all the sweeter. "Just because all the facts may point to your conclusion, doesn't mean its right. And you know what else? Fuck. You."

You let go of his shirt, and pushed his chest, slamming his body back into his chair. Then you turned around, and stalked to the nearest toilets, ignoring the dazed look he'd given you, the call of your name behind your back, the way the blood rushed in your ears and your head told you to _turn back, you were being an idiot_. Biting the inside of your lower lip to keep your face straight, blinking slowly to keep the tears back, you practically ran to the bathroom and slammed the door, leaning your back against it and closing your eyes. Everything hit home, everything you'd been trying to bury under research and the hunt, everything that had just been overloading your mind for these past few weeks – it just hit, hard, in the middle of your stomach, and the pieces were lost as everything surged and rained down on you, soaking your skin with scum.

_How were you supposed to handle everything? It was too much. Too fucking MUCH. You feel betrayed, afraid for your life, and so depressingly in unrequited love it was like a stab wound with the knife still in, the blood just dripping out the sides, leaking your strength, slowly, slowly, until there was nothing left. WOULD SOMEONE JUST TELL YOU WHAT TO DO? HOW TO FIX IT? HOW TO MAKE IT OKAY?_

You opened your eyes.

The toilets were a single room, a unisex disabled one with a dirty white sink and a mirror in the stall. The walls are this disgusting puked-up-mushed-up-peas colour, and there's a crack to the right side of the mirror that spreads along and branches in so many directions it looks like a tree. A dead tree, with no leaves, and that had had too much exuberance in life. For a second you just clutched the sink, leaning all your weight onto your forearms, your palms, staring at your reflection. You can't see beneath it.

Curls, honey brown, frizzing and going haywire around your head. Some were in your eyes and you brushed them back with impatient fingers, scooping them out of your way, all the better to see, to analyse. Your eyes were this strange mixture of colours, a golden rim around your pupil, with a largely hazel green iris flecked with a darker brown, and a light grey-blue. Hardly anyone ever noticed – no one took the time to stare deeply into your eyes, like people do in the movies – a fact for which you were glad. They're fringed by long, sparse lashes, and set under winged, light brown eyebrows. You have a freckle next to the right eye, down the bottom, the side near your ear, not your nose. You have other freckles, one on the very edge of your bottom lip. The left side has more freckles than the right. Your lips are pink, a _delicate_ pink, unlike anything else about you.

_Why are you staring at yourself in the mirror?_ You're not sure. Maybe you're looking for the reason that makes people want to protect you from everything. Maybe you're trying to find out what makes them want to betray you equally. _Is it something in the way you look? Your chin, is it too weak? Maybe they hate your dimples._ You try to see what they see. All you feel is ugly.

You know that this thinking pattern is irrational – beyond irrational, stupid and pointless, meaningless. It will get you nowhere. They didn't leave you because of how you look. They left, they betrayed you – _a demon wants to _kill_ you_ – because of what's on the inside.

Suddenly you can't bear to look at yourself anymore. If you keep looking, will you see the insides? Will they be as obviously unsightly to your eyes as they are to others? You can't bear the thought.

You slam on the tap, and it squeaks as rusty metal rubs against metal – the tap is loose – cupped hands filling beneath the faucet, and when you splash it on to your face you gasp at the cold, at the wet slap of the water. Scrub your hands over your face, _can you scrub it away? _You drop your hands away to rest them on the sink again, just breathing in and out through your nose and mouth, staring down into the white basin, with the black hole in the middle that took everything you gave it and hid it away. You watched the water flow from the tap, down the sink, into the pipes, then snapped it off. When you finally looked back up to the mirror, Dean was behind you, and you had to smother a scream you were so surprised. He was just standing there, unmoving. If you hadn't known him you would have found it ten times creepier than you already did – and considering the fact that his stillness, the look in his eyes – _what did it mean?!_ – was scaring you half to death as it was, that was a pretty mean feat.

_When had he entered? _You never heard him. _What is he doing –?_

"What are you doing here?" you ask, shooting a glance behind him at the closed, and now locked, door. You snatch your gaze away from the exit – _don't act so like a victim – _and narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your breasts, trying to look as standoffish and 'don't mess with me' and 'fuck off' as you possibly can. Now was _not_ a good time. If he didn't leave, you'd probably do something stupid again. Maybe you'd yell this time. Maybe you'd punch him. Maybe you'd cry. Who knew? _What was he doing here? He was not the confrontational one – that was Sammy's thing. When people needed space, he gave them space. Sometimes far too much space. What point was he trying to press? _

After an almost palpable and very marked pause he moves a single step forwards, never taking his hazel eyes off of yours. If you look closely enough you can see that they're burning. The tension in his body is even more pronounced than it was when he was sitting still, but this time you can't recognise the reason. _It must be the same grounds, right? What else could have happened in such a short time? What else could have snapped? _His silence as he stalks ever closer is beyond unnerving, and your pulse starts to quicken inside of you, at the proximity he is imposing. You edge closer to the sink, trying not to make the movement too evident. _Do something. _Are you talking to him, or yourself?

You repeat your question, and finally receive an answer when he's right in front of you, crowding you, barely an inch of breathing space between your body and his. Electricity sparks in the space, crawls up your spine to your neck, and makes your head feel light, but your body heavy. Your breaths come shallower now; you don't want to run the risk of brushing him, of contact. You just know instinctively that if you touch, something will happen. Something will combust. "Apologising."

You open your mouth, your lips already forming an exclamation, something like, _what do you mean, what are you talking about _– but you never get the chance for your voice box to utter the first syllable.

His mouth is on yours.

000

AN: MWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!! Cliff hanger!! (dances) I know, I know, cruel. But this time I am so-o-o-o-o-o-o sticking it out until Sunday next week… so totally. Because I have that kind of willpower… damnit. But I am!! Hehe. Anyways. As always, love you if you review, and I shake my fist at you – peacefully – if you don't. :P

Okie dokie pokie. ENJOY!!!


	17. Feel It All Inside

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

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17. Feel It All Inside

_Too much of a good thing can be wonderful._

_-- Mae West_

It was one of those still moments in time. A slice of still life. All she could feel, all she could think, all every miniscule particle, and muscle, and nerve of her body could focus on was the fact that he – _he_ _was_ _kissing_ _her_.

There was a quick gasp of _'Dean'_, at the beginning, the shock radiating through both of them as he just did it, without thought or even realisation of his actions. It wasn't a soft kiss; it wasn't tender, or slow, or loving, or even gentle. It was a hard meeting of lips, his pressed against hers for that infinite second, wherein she was far to shocked to respond, to react, to _reciprocate – _to do anything but stand there – a literal statue. _Dean. Kissing. Her. _It was like something out of her fantasies, her dreams – only better, far more real, _substantial_; he was there, she was there, it was _indescribably everything_ – but at the same time it was otherworldly. _It couldn't actually – he wouldn't actually – _It had to be some sort of a delusion of the mind. She couldn't actually _believe _that it was happening. _It was – it was –_

His lips – warm and firm, slightly parted. They were the only part of him touching her, but even that was enough to overload her senses, to make her feel a melting sensation sweep from head, to toes, back up to her head.

_Do something!_

Her mind was rousing her just enough to kiss back – _fuck, fuck, fuck, DEAN. Kissing. HER. – _when he pulled away, and stepped back, breathing a little faster, in ways that made her imagination run high and hot, like the blood in her veins. Then he said, eyes defiant, but with an underlying, practically invisible anxiety, the realisation of rejection, of everything changing after this – "I'm not sorry."

She just stood there, staring, lower back pressed against the sink, hands clutching the basin at her sides, eyes wide and beyond seeing anything but the boy and what had just happened. Her mind was trying to grasp the concept, and was leaving her body behind, an empty shell of inanimate meat, of tingling nerve endings.

Her impregnable silence left the boy unsure of what exactly to do. Leave? Explain? Go for it again, like his body was clamouring for him to? All he had to do was reach out, and pull her against him, kiss everything away until she was senseless. He knew he could. At least he hoped so. _What if she – what? Hated him now? He shouldn't have done it, he should have just –_ "If you're going to hit me, just do it now," he said, covering up his nervousness with boredom, as though it hadn't meant anything, it still didn't, it was just – and then she came to.

"Not bloody likely," she said, and before he knew what was what, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and jerked his head down to hers. He, unlike she had been, was not incapacitated by shock. He hesitated for a tiny moment, a noticeable _is-this-really-happening_ pause, and then kissed her back.

It was a feral mating of lips and tongue and teeth and mouths, of anger and passion and repression; and she can't breathe, thoughts deteriorate, and bodily instincts just take over as Dean's lips, lush and full, wet and perfect, move across hers and set about destroying everything inside. When teeth are added, biting down just short of savagery, she awakens enough to hear herself moaning, tiny little noises in the back of her throat that compound on the reality of what's happening, and her fingers tighten around the back of his neck._ Because it's actually happening._ She has a mantra of words revolving and spinning and falling in her head, and all she can handle is the repetition, incoherent lines involving _Dean_, and other, less important words. _Dean. Fuck. _

At her back is the cold, white tiles of the bathroom wall, pressed against her front is his body, compact and hard and…_hard_. They are all feverish desire, all hurried need, and everything is happening fast and rough and uncoordinated – a ripped off shirt, and suddenly its skin with no barrier of thin material against the heat of him and the cold of the tiles – another and it's his flesh against hers. Everything is panting and strangled breaths, moans and exhalations of barely distinguishable words – straps are pulled off her shoulders and then his hands are on her, and any lingering thought, not washed out by the previous battering of sensations, is crushed.

It was just as she'd imagined, what? Not even ten minutes ago – calloused hands on her peaches and cream skin, firm and hot and needy – and the words build up in her throat, until a soundless noise escapes – a sort of strangled scream. She can't stand the waiting, doesn't want to – _she's ready_ – she's been ready for _months_ – she has to have him _now_. She feels as if she will die unless she can have him inside of her, all around her, everywhere, until she can't think, can't see, can't breathe in a breath that doesn't taste of him. Something of this message passes between their bodies – she's not sure whether she said it, whether she just showed him, whether she screamed it. All she knew is it gets even more chaotic, frantic, building inside of her, and she's pulling at the button and fly of his jeans, shoving the denim down, slipping on the protection he passes her, and he's tearing at her jeans, and there's biting and freedom and tangled, writhing and twining bodies, and he's inside of her.

A second of adjustment, her body accommodating him, eyes staring into eyes, and that's it. Eyes still connected, bodies still connected, hers hitched up and slathered around his and the wall, his hands holding her waist against the tiles as he thrusts, rushed and hard, rocking her as the clean sweat of sex slicks their bodies and his familiar scent gets locked in her nostrils.

Mouths connect and part, and move onto other patches of skin – his hands move to her hips to plaster her further against him, embracing her as he moves deeper, further inside of her – _harder, faster_ – she's free to let her hands wander – scratching over the skin of his chest and back and sides, in his short hair, around his neck, fingers digging into hard muscles and teeth biting and sucking wherever her mouth can reach. Everything is blurred at the edges, like a dream. She's not sure if she's saying something, if she's moaning, panting, shouting; she just wraps around him as the sensations grow, build and intensify, as he takes them to completion.

_Dean, DEAN, FUCK. _

When they explode it's a culmination of all their passions. The anger that sparked this, the want that followed, the desperation of the in between – it all comes together to create for each a climax this side of heaven and hell. It's nothing short of the best she's ever experienced, and as it sweeps her away she clings to him, a rock in her sensual tide, her eyes closed against the skin of his throat. His fingers bruise her waist as he clutches back – breathless as she is, mindless as she is – just as far gone.

They stay like that, his body holding her up, and still inside of her, for an immeasurable amount of time, just breathing, trying to catch the rhythm of normal behaviour between them back.

They both know when the sticky, crawling after-the-afterglow feeling disappears, they won't know what to say, how to act; the vulnerability and violence of the deed they just shared changing everything between them – taking them to previously unimaginable levels of intimacy. Neither is comfortable with showing too much of themselves, of giving away anything about what they feel – what they felt – how anything affected them. What they'd just done had shot that all to hell.

She's the first to pull away, to prove how casual she is with a smile and a, 'That was hot. We should fix all our fights like this.', as she tries to act suave. _He will never know she's in love with him, no matter what. This was probably a one time thing anyway. It was just a combustion of all his negative feelings and a way to assuage the vulnerability – for her...well, she can't lie, she's been wanting to for months._

He blinks, and then he smiles, pecks her on the mouth and pulls out, looking for his shirt and pulling up his jeans, shoulders a strong line of impassiveness, of careful emptiness. "Yeah. Whatever you say." She is unprepared for the empty feeling inside of her now, and collapses against the wall for a second, barely able to stand on her own two feet. It's warm from the friction of her skin. Quickly, before he can notice, she shakes it off, and hikes her bra back onto her shoulder, dressing and tidying up in the mirror hurriedly, as you would after a fuck with a perfect stranger. That's what this feeling is now – utter _unknowing_, unfamiliar territory. She distracts herself with her image, flicking her eyes away from his one, and ignoring what he was doing with the leftovers from what they'd just done. That is, the condom. Her lips are bruised the colour of ripe strawberries, and her curls have become even more hellishly messed up. She has bite marks all down the side of her neck, and a love bite on her collar bone. She looks like she's just been thoroughly loved, as of course, she has, if you use the loosest meaning of the word. When they're passable again, they leave the bathroom, and re-enter the stuffy, silent library.

Everyone in the local history section is staring at them – and she realises that the most embarrassing experience she's ever had is not, in fact, being pashed by Pastor Jim's nephew, and getting caught out by him when she was fifteen, but rather walking out of a public bathroom, into the middle of a public library, and realising that she's just been screaming out the name of the guy walking next to her so loudly that the whole building heard.

He's just amused – she can see it in the smirk behind his eyes.

_Stupid asshole._

She avoids all the eyes, an embarrassed as well as an _I've-just-been-fucked_ flush staining her cheeks now, and they grab all their stuff, and she rushes out of the library and into the Impala, him following her, both of them leaving the strange looks behind.

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AN: I posted… a day early. I lasted – see!! I can be strong!! I can play hardball! Kind of… anyways, I'd really appreciate it if you guys would give me feedback on this one, because I really want to know what you think. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter – and for the sake of all that is holy – review this one!! Review review review! I can't say it enough. This is like, the first _serious_ and _involved_ sex scene I've written, and I want to know how you guys took it. Thanks. See you next Sunday!!


	18. Consequence Is Waiting For You

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

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18. Consequence Is Waiting For You

_While we are free to choose our actions, we are not free to choose the consequences of our actions._

_-- Stephen R. Covey _

You think you want to die.

Not a fast death either, that'd be a little too good for you. You need a slow one, something involving layers, and agonising pain. Maybe being tied to a cactus in the middle of a desert, covered in honey with a fire ant's nest and a glass of water inches away from you. Or some scenario like in that movie, Saw. That psycho seemed to know what he was doing. Anything would be better than what you felt now – although the death you just described, and what's going through your head and the air in the car sounded remarkably similar. Perhaps even a little _less_ painful then the awkward atmosphere in which you are surrounded. If the previous tension floating around in the air wasn't bad enough, the one heavy with Sharika and John and just exposed supposed secrets, this new issue certainly multiplied it ten fold. And this time you couldn't blame it on Dean and Sam being jackasses, or Sharika. No, this was entirely your fault.

You knew how Dean was with women; you've witnessed how he is first hand. Too many times to count, in fact, and many of them are too horrifying for you to forget, ever. What made you any different from the many faceless women Dean screwed in public restrooms? _Nothing_. Sure, you were in love with him, but that was just you, it had no effect on what _he_ did, on how _he_ reacted to this thing. After all, you'd thought that you were different from the other students John had had, and look where that ended up. You know that you weren't any different to Dean than all the other easy women across the country – ones that weren't offended by cheap bathroom sex, because they took it as a sign of spontaneity and passion, or maybe they just didn't care – they just wanted any part of him they could have, like you did.

You regret it; that goes without saying. _Oh_, _god_, you do.

Other than the time you managed to knock both yourself and Sharika out while diving for a gun to shoot this supernatural creature, which resulted in the two of you getting captured and chained up, only to be saved by these two other hunters, one of which who asked you out on a date and turned out to be a total freak in bed – he had this fish fetish thing…let's never talk about that again – this has got to be _the stupidest_ thing you have ever, ever done. When had you gotten so impulsive as to fuck in a public place?

Maybe when you fell in love with Dean.

It was the best sex you'd ever had – _understatement _– and you felt so close to him, so _connected_, and definitely not just physically, although that's what the act mainly consisted of. The physical presence of him overriding everything else, the betrayal you felt over John's orders to Sharika, the confusing cocktail of emotions you had for your former best friend, the annoyance you felt at Dean for not listening to you about the hunt, it dominated _everything_. And you couldn't see it as anything but a fuck – there was no emotion involved, between either of you except anger, and on your behalf, pain. Heartbreaking, _ohgodyes, ohfuckno_, pain, and the realisation of everything being so right and so wrong, and meaningful but insignificant, and all the previous contradicting and conflicting emotions you'd been feeling about the fucked up situation you were in just added to the experience in some wildly, crazily erotic way. Everything was so far past confusing, it'd be easier to take a left turn onto insanity and never go back.

_The art of fucking away the pain._ That's what it started out as, right? Maybe? You had no idea _what _you were thinking when you grabbed him. It consisted of something like, '_Dean'_ and something like '_angry and hurt'_ and something like _'fuck the consequences – literally'_, because it may have been the one and only chance for you to go there, to know what could be – and now everything was just worse. The pain wasn't gone, it was manifolded. It was magnified. And now there was no going back.

There was no revoking, no denying, no _chance_ of you ever falling out of love with the dickhead. He was inside you now, you had memories now, you had the scent of him still in your nostrils, the taste of him in your mouth, the bodily recollection of the sandpaper-satin feel of his cheek that graduated to the silk of his mouth against your tongue and lips as he thrust inside of you, into you, again, and again, and again.

_You have GOT to stop thinking about that._

The air of the Impala stinks of unresolved issues; so you leave it with less reluctance than you have ever felt – usually you want to stay in the beautiful vintage vehicle, and could, quite happily, forever. But now – well now everything is skewed, screwed up, just _wrong_, so there was no guarantee that even the Impala would be left out of this. You don't look at Dean as you enter the motel room, and see Sam sitting on the bed.

He's sitting there, elbows on his knees, hands dangling, useless between them, staring at the door, as though he hasn't moved since you left. It's something you could suspect him of – if he wasn't sparking all over with raw, nervous energy. The kind that always seemed to roll off of him when he was about to take his brother on; a peculiar mix of patience, and understanding, as well as the opposites of both of these emotions. You've seen him like this only a few times in the months that you were on the road with the brothers…_always because of John…_and you knew when Sam put on his '_I've got a problem, and we're hashing it out RIGHT NOW' _determined, stubborn, _'don't mess with me Dean_' face, the Winchesters were in for a serious conversation and you were going to be left out, ignored and disregarded – _gladly._

He didn't waste anytime; as soon as Dean came in the room, bypassing you where you were standing, watching Sam in the doorway, and dumping his papers onto his bed next to his brother. Just like John, he always delves in straight to the heart of the problem, at times you even found it creepy how uncannily similar their methods of dealing with things were. "She's right Dean," he says, straight out and forward – confronting and in his brother's face, as always. It immediately brings your mind back to the time you'd been hunting, and had gotten thrown in gaol. So, you'd been trespassing on private property, with a loaded, unauthorised weapon – and you were only seventeen. Did that really require them to be so harsh? John had gotten you out of there, then started coming down on your ass, hard. Going on and on about – well, everything you'd done wrong, really, and how you should never go anywhere without back up – Sharika had been checking out a similar location as you weren't sure which one it was exactly that had suffered the deaths. You hadn't had much time, because you knew another victim was going to be picked off as easily as a turkey in a churchyard, and thought you each could take the spirit on by yourselves if confronted. In any case, it was all very direct and there was no beating around the bush. Just as Sam was doing to Dean now. You almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite.

"About what?" Dean asks, disinterested, sorting through the papers for what you'd learnt so far, so he could share with Sam. You wondered where Sharika had gone for a second, and then shrugged – _the longer you don't have to deal with THAT, the better –_ finally entering the room entirely and closing the motel door on both the motel room, and the act you committed with him. You threw yourself onto a bed, onto your back, watching the scene in front of you play out, a smile twitching at the sides of your mouth, waiting for its chance to escape. Warring with it was the need for solitude, to work everything that had happened to you today out, after it was all just dumped onto you. You couldn't but help blame Sam and Dean for this, if they had just tried to get along, if they had just been _nice_, you could have still been happily living in your warm and nice little bubble where it was all her fault. You wouldn't have had to face the facts, that there were outside forces, that everything wasn't as black and white, as cut and dried and perfectly neat and organised and almost easy as you wished it could be. It was even more complicated than you'd initially believed, and now with the added consequences of you and Dean plus the sex thing… Dean knew you had overheard the entire thing, the whole speech Sharika had given; he knew you were emotionally vulnerable, and he decided to take advantage of you in that state. Any decent guy would back off, and give you your space, but Dean! Dean decides to be selfish and – _it was reciprocated, Lauren! _

You sighed.

Shoving the blame off onto other people was not the way to go to sort this out. It might be easier, more selfish, but in the long run it would just make everything even more confusing. You decided to listen to the voice of reason in your head; it was simply much easier this way, you didn't have to fight with yourself as well as everyone else – and you forced your focus back onto the brothers instead.

The instinct to smile bursts through you when you see the look Sam glances at you, and then the one he shoots back at Dean, inclining his head slightly, trying to send his brother a silent message. The dramatic irony of the situation; Sam knowing less than you, but thinking you are the one with out the knowledge frees the smile, and it tumbles onto your face, spreading like dirty sunshine. He's trying to warn Dean about what he's trying to talk about, without tipping you off.

Dean rolls his eyes at the two of you, and snaps at the taller boy, "She overheard the whole thing, Sam."

"Oh." Sam pauses, and then his gaze flicks to you again, this time it's worried, and there are questions buried in the blue green depths – _are you okay? Do you want to talk about it? How do you feel? _Basic psychotherapy stuff. You shake your head, refusing to answer anything, and he turns back to his brother. The intent shines through his body, his purpose refocused onto talking his issues out with his brother. You can't help but feel a certain amount of satisfaction – you hate having Sam's full attention – well, anyone's really – on you, and now Dean has to suffer it. It was like sweet revenge, only better, because you didn't have to do anything._ Karma? No…he didn't really do anything to warrant it… whatever, you should just enjoy it,_ you think. _Everyone has to have a hobby, right? _"Okay…" Sam says, "She's still right."

"About what?" Dean repeats his question, shaking his head, and looking oblivious. He plays the part of stupid, clueless Neanderthal quite, quite well for someone who can be the total opposite. Maybe he thinks if he doesn't acknowledge what Sam is talking about, he will just give up. Not likely to happen – in _any _universe – but it's always good to keep hope alive, right? Even if it's stomped on and handed back to you all bloody and mangled.

"About us displacing our anger onto her for Dad leaving." Sam's answer is prompt, and flat, devoid of anything but determination. Still, something about this irks you – you know he could just be bringing it up to set the issue straight with Dean – but something about it just seems off. Something in his posture maybe? What does someone with an ulterior motive look like? Does he _have_ an ulterior motive? You don't know why you have this feeling, like there's just something more to it. You shove it out of your mind – it's just stupid, paranoid.

You give a mental shrug, and wait for Dean's reply – it's just as swift as Sam's had been. "No, we were angry at her because she abandoned Lauren." You blink. Confirmation at last. It doesn't feel as good as it might have this morning, but it's still nice. After all, you had been abandoned on the orders of the mighty John Winchester, and you knew without a doubt that if the boys were given instructions to drop your sorry ass and head somewhere else, just like Sharika had, they'd do it. No matter what Dean and you had just done. No matter how much you might think of them as your family now. Just because you feel a certain way about people, doesn't mean that it's reciprocated – John and Dean being prime examples of this. Along this thought path a tiny spark of anger ignites inside of you, flaring to indignant, accusing life. You knew Sharika had been right about the boys misplacing their anger onto her, and Dean knew it too – it was as clear as day. Now that he didn't have Sharika to blame he was using you as his outlet, as a shield to keep him safe from his real emotions and issues, the ones he refused to let himself have because he felt that it wasn't being a good son, that it didn't fit in with their family and what was acceptable behaviour for him. He was using you now, just like he'd used you in the library – a convenient excuse, a convenient fuck, something that could be exploited with out consequence or suspicion. You were something to be pitied and for him to avail himself of in private. And the really pathetic thing was even though you realised this, even though you _knew _this – _why else would he have fucked you? _– if he ever wanted you again, you'd let him have you. Gladly. No matter how worthless you felt now, how dirty and cheap you might feel after, the fact was that you loved him. You wanted to be close to him, to have any part of him that you could.

_You couldn't help yourself. _

Sam's giving Dean a very speaking look, you apprehend as you jerk your mind back to the scene yet again. You interpret it as something like – _Dude, wake up to yourself. What Dad's doing has to be affecting you just as much as it's affecting me, maybe more so, even if you aren't willing to admit it. And we've been assholes to Sharika just because she's easy to dump these feelings on. Admit that, at least. _

Dean caught his brother's look with his usual ease, and narrowed his eyes, clenching his jaw. _Like he had when he'd thrust that last time inside of you, closing his eyes halfway like that except the look on his face – fuck! You have GOT to stop thinking like that! _You swallow, and try to get your attention back on the conversation, seeing how it looks like at any moment, something nasty could happen. It's in Dean's stance – _mind off the body, stick to body LANGUAGE _– the stiff, angry pose and just _everything_ telling you it was going to get ugly. "It's because she abandoned Lauren, okay? Not for any other reason she was psycho babbling about. What the hell was it? 'Repressing and redirecting the emotions that I have towards Dad onto her.'" He imitates Sharika in a high falsetto, and despite yourself, feel the smile start up again. Dean's being a real ass, and he knows it. He's doing it to push Sam away, to avoid the topic. You're not sure if it's going to work, but if it were you in Dean's place, and Sam was giving you that look, you wouldn't have acted mature or rational either. You'd disagree just to spite him – and as part of your deny and repress cycle – it's just what you did. "She's a pushy bitch, I don't like her, and she's _wrong_."

Okay…maybe you wouldn't be _that_ immature. But you had to give Dean a little bit of an easier time; he was having a harder time than even you with his emotions – he _was_ a guy, after all…okay, stereotypical, he was a _WINCHESTER_ – and for them to be harder to deal with than yours; that was saying something. _It might even be harder than his – OH NO, SO NOT GOING THERE. _

"Dad's the one that made her do it, Dean. She told us herself. And you saw the way she looked when she talked about Lauren, just as I did. I don't think there's anyone who cares for her as much as Sharika does." You feel a catch in your heart, and breathe slowly in and out through your nose, trying to ease it. _Ignore it, just…just ignore it…_ But a tiny part of you rebelled; it rode high on its iota of happiness. You were the only who had ever been close enough to her, the only one who had been able to read her emotions clearly off her face. If Sam was able to infer this off of her it must have been blindingly obvious; plus, she had never been much of a liar so –_ SHUT UP LAUREN, JUST SHUT UP._ "Not even us, and you as well as I do know how much we care about her." _They do care! Well, at least Sam does. He hadn't tried to use you as a convenient fuck as yet._ "Dean, it isn't her fault, and you damn well know we would have done the same thing in her position."

Dean fidgets, looking at Sam and then the ground, and then you, and then Sam again. "Come on," he says. "Really?" He sighs, then shrugs, looking up at Sam with stubborn, immoveable features. _Like when he was – _"I would have at least told Lauren about it."

Unconsciously you hear yourself saying, a habitual, instinctual response that won't help anything or anyone, but still somehow needs to be said – "I wouldn't have let you leave me, you know. I would have stayed, no matter what – or if that failed, I would have hidden in the trunk of the Impala, with a gun sticking into my backside like a teenage boy's first –"

_That's exactly what Sharika said she'd say_, Sam sends Dean, in yet another one of his looks, deadpan and interrupting you – but you can see the purple flicker of triumph in his invisible smile. He glances at you, seeing your narrow eyed glare and quickly clips out an annoyed, "What do you have against her Dean, honestly?"

Dean shrugs. Trying to act nonchalant and disinterested by this conversation, or was he distracted by what had just happened? You couldn't tell…but…just something…no…he couldn't…could he? It _didn't_ mean anything to him. "She's annoying – you know how much those innocent, virgin types piss me off." Huh. You never knew that. It's too late to use it against him now, though – he knows irrefutably that you are indeed, _not_ a virgin, and there was no use trying to pretend you were now – or that you were at least, cold and frigid. Not that you'd want to, if it meant that the thing in the bathroom with the – _STOP IT_. To think, this thought path started out as a possible new way to annoy Dean, and ended up connecting to your heterosexual cottaging with him in the library bathroom. Were you ever going to stop thinking about that?

Yeah…probably not. _Definitely_ not in the first five days, and so far only half an hour had passed.

Anyways, it was clearly evident to you as well as Sam that Dean was just using another excuse. Sharika wasn't annoying. Sure, she could be a perfectionist, obsessive, mothering, overbearing, a smart alec, too quiet or too enclosed on herself, bossy, cynical, sarcastic and tryingly obvious…but she wasn't _annoying_. Most of the time.

Sam gives Dean _yet another _look, and he finally caves. Well…sort of. "All right, all_ right_, Sam. Stop looking at me like that and actually open your trap for once."

Sam smiles. "Good…it's been a long night, so we should all go to bed –" _What the fuck, it's only seven o'clock!_ "– but I'm going to go apologise to Sharika first."

"Have _fun _Sam," you say, and then realise that if he left you'd be alone _with Dean_. In a room _with beds._ _Alone. _And that your bed is in with Sharika anyway. So the next words from your mouth tumble and garble together, running fast as wind from your mouth, and make the boys look at you strangely. "And take me with you because you know you can't have all the fun, I want some fun and besides that's where I sleep and you just told me to sleep so sleep is what I should do, right, so I'm going with you because my bed is in with Sharika and I need the bed to sleep unless I want to sleep on the floor, even though I really don't want to sleep because its only seven and what the hell made you suggest it, you really are no fun are you Sam, but I'll come anyways because I can bring some, fun that is."

A pause filters through the room. "Did you even _breathe_?" Dean asks, staring at you. Sam is the same.

"I'm breathing _now_. Okay, bye Dean, let's go Sam!" You grab the taller boy's arm and tow him out of the room, not even looking back at Dean. What happened between you – you can't let anyone know. You can't let anyone see. Notice. The repercussions and consequences of this – Sharika and Sam treating you different – especially _Sam_, _you fucked his brother_ – and then…Dean might uncover truths you'd rather let lie in the dirt, smothered by what he thought you felt for him. You can't even imagine how he'd react to that. What he'd do. He'd probably leave you – it's what everyone seemed to do. Or maybe he'd just – just what? It's all – it's all just fucked up and confusing, just like the thing with Sharika. And – and – ARRRGH. You've been blaming it all on her, everything, and now it turns out that the person you should blame is the one you trusted most in the world, besides Sam and Dean. _John_. _Fuck._ You have no idea how to sort it all out, how to make it all better. Everyone's dumping things on top of you, even if they don't realise they're doing it – and some of it is your fault anyway. All you know is that you have to sort it all out first, before you can share. "Sam," you say, as you pull to stop outside the room you're sharing with Sharika. "She can't know."

And that's that.

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AN: Miss me? Lol. Thanks everyone SO SO MUCH for reveiwing, I love you all. I've been plagued by writer's doubt for TWO WHOLE WEEKS now; it was horrible, horrible, but finally I think I'm getting out of it, I actually managed to write a page and a half. A whole lotta crap happens before you guys have to see it, but yeah... I HATE WRITERS BLOCK!!! Pestilence and bunny rabbits shalt fall from the sky and onto it!! Hopefully. Hmm. Anyways, I hope you guys liked this chapter, as always, and will review, because I promise to reply with much arm flailing and kisses and !WHEE!'s if you do. Lol. Oh, and here's my promo for chapter 19:

_The relationships between all the hunters are changing, morphing. How does Lauren react to them all? How does Dean react? And will the other two notice the changes? Find out next week in Believing Improbable Things, Chapter 19, Never Be The Same Again._


	19. Never Be The Same Again

Disclaimer: See Chapter One. 

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19. Never Be The Same Again

_God may forgive sins, he said, but awkwardness has no forgiveness in heaven or earth._

_-- Ralph Waldo Emerson_

I was right after all – our ghostly culprit that was killing women in the town wasn't, in fact, Rosemary James, it was her gardener – Randy Simpner. His name…and its colloquial meaning…were very accurate – he'd been having sex with more than his fair share of women in the town and Rosemary had found out. She'd confronted him; he'd killed her…and then killed himself when he'd thought that the cops were onto him. He was murdering women now, because his garden was being torn up by its new occupants – it's a widely known fact that construction can trigger a spirit's awakening – and the women he happened to be taking out were the ones who'd been doing him all those years ago and had now gotten on with their lives. It seems he was the jealous, possessive type. After thirty-three years, you'd think he'd move on.

Seriously.

We were split up into pairs and searching for his grave in the garden of the estate, at around midnight – _joy_ – and it just so happened I was with Dean. It had been three days since we'd – _you know, in the bathroom?_ – and we hadn't spoken about it since. Scrap that – we hadn't spoken. It was _beyond_ awkward – it was – it was – there is no word to describe it. We kind of spoke around each other, so that the other two wouldn't suspect anything – but there was no eye contact, no emotion, and there was certainly no normalcy. I wasn't teasing him, ditto for him on me – _him on me…oh fuck. BAD LAUREN_ – and it was just all stilted between us. Like we weren't sure where to go now that we'd been _there_. Ugh.

Same with Sharika – well, sort of. Me and her hadn't had wild, fantastic, screaming sex. Nor would we ever. I acted the same around her – or at least tried to – as I had before I knew that John had sent her on her merry way away from me. It was just that I needed to sort everything out still, but now there was just more to sort out. It was going to take forever – especially considering I had no time for such things, and I didn't want to have to think about it, so I was avoiding it all.

Sam and Dean never asked me about it – _so not surprising _– and Sharika, well she was under orders from me not to. It turned out to be a good thing that I'd banned such talk between us – who knew that I could be so forward thinking? Not me, that's for sure. But this thing – _god_, it's just so beyond fucked up. _How do I get myself into these things? Is there something about me that attracts angst and bad luck and crap? _

"Fuck!" Dean cursed softly as we heard Randy – _god, I should just say The Ghost; the name Randy is not going to scare anyone, ever_ – coming up close behind us. Apparently we were the pair heading in the right direction. "Quick!" he whispered, and shoved us in an alcove built into the wall of the estate. It was barely wide enough to encompass one of us, let alone both, but he squeezed into it and pulled me in after him, squashing our bodies so close together I was unable to tell where he ended and I began. Just like when we'd –

My heart froze, and then came back triple the force, hammering against my ribs like it was trying to burst out and thwack him in the face.

_I was right,_ a darkly amused voice in the back of my mind stated. _There is just something about me. _

I was practically sitting on his lap, though I was held off the ground; both of his thighs were between mine, my back was pressed against the wall, knees on either side of him, our chests pasted together. Each of his hands were next to my shoulders, mine were on his, and his face was about an inch away.

_If only we were naked. Oh god. _

Our eyes met in some sort of intense mating of sight, hazel green meeting hazel green and gold, his and mine, lust and love. I could hardly breathe – a combination of the heavy, sparking atmosphere between us and the lack of space. But the air I did puff out mingled with his – I was breathing his air, I was breathing _Dean_, I was –

Dean rocked against me a little and we were pressed so close that I could feel – I could feel _everything_, and my eyes closed and I sighed, quiet, soft, inaudible, my head falling back on my neck. _No, no, no – again – oh god…_

"Dean," I whispered, "don't." First we'd been rubbing each other raw all day – _metaphorically, personality wise, not literally, damnit_ – getting on each other's nerves as much as it was possible to do while not speaking to each other. Surprisingly it's remarkably easy – tipping sauce and drinks on each other, using innuendo to insult each other and then looking innocent, being a smart ass, flirting with other men and women… And now this. We did _not_ need a repeat of what had happened in the library, simply because we were pissed at each other again.

Sure, it may be a creative outlet for the negative energy and emotions, but it definitely was not a _smart_ one, considering the way I feel about him. I'd just get more and more attached and then when he left me it would just be even worse. I'm not sure how it _could_ get any worse, but I'm sure it can. After all, observe Murphy's Law – anything that can go wrong, will. Or something to that effect.

"Why –" _again_, "– not?"

"Lauren? Dean? We found it!" Sharika's voice cut through the sensual haze clouding my brain, and I jerked away from him – as far as I could get, which was like, less than half an inch – then squeezed and pulled and pushed my way out of the alcove as fast as I could.

I think I might have kneed him in the stomach.

"Here!" I called, breathless still. _Fuck stupid Dean and his stupid fucking effect on me and his stupid fucking – okay, not his fucking, because that definitely wasn't stupid, but – oh GOD, why am I thinking about this? _"Where are you?"

"Over here!" I followed her voice, running, and then I was there, at Ra- _The Ghost's_ grave, and time became a speeding miasma of digging, salting and burning and bones; seconds and minutes blurring, so unlike the time zone that Dean and I had shared in the alcove. If only I could control the time changes, so then things I wanted to be sped up would be, and things that I needed slowed down would last forever. Of course, it doesn't work that way, it works the opposite.

By the time we hopped back into the Impala the silence between Dean and I had lengthened again, and as before, there seemed no way to get over it.

000

The boys told us to wait at the motel. Well, we were waiting at the motel, and it was shit. The waiting, the motel, the whole situation was just _shit_.

"God, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Can't we just –"

"They told us to wait," Sharika deadpanned, and I glared at her.

"So what? We're just going to be their little slaves now? We're just going to do whatever they tell us to? Since when have you or I _ever_ done what we were told?" _Besides that one time John Winchester told you to leave me and you – ugh. Don't bring that up. Deep breaths, deep breaths, she doesn't know you know, we aren't going there. How would she react if she knew I knew? What would she do?_ I don't suppose it really matters – she'll have to just deal with it.

_But how would she feel? Oh, shut up. _

"Lauren, it's for our own good. Besides," she glanced around and leaned closer, and I could feel, coming off her in waves, that she – as I did – wished we were out there, fighting, instead of sitting at home like good little housewives, waiting for the men to come back. But _she_ knew _her_ duties. _She_ did what _she_ was told. _Fucking assholes._ Do they not understand the worry a person goes through? What if something happens to them? I could have been there, could have helped, could have done _something_, instead of forever being in the mindset of _'what if'_. "We don't have any way to get there. Well, I do, but I don't particularly want to fight evil naked."

She was talking about her teleportation power – she'd had it since just before she left me – and was still pretty shit at it. Usually she had her powers under control reasonably quickly; she'd practiced her teleportation powers _all the fucking tim_e to keep herself _'in shape'_ so to speak, but teleportation is a very hard power to master, and she hadn't had to use it much; hadn't had the need. Nor had she really had the time to practice, or the place. It's pretty hard to gauge how you're doing if you're just teleporting around a tiny motel room, with the curtains pulled shut. She'd had to hunt alone, do everything alone, so she'd been a _lot_ more pressed for time. It was only just now that she had three other hunters to rely on that she was letting herself – and let me tell you, the going wasn't so pretty. Nine times out of ten she ended up coming out of thin air naked, her clothes in a heap where she'd just teleported from. And we weren't quite brave enough to try the double thing yet – she might only take a hand with her, or something. And I would _not_ let her go without me. Plus, the whole idea of fighting evil, _au naturel_… not so good.

I paced around the room, making zigzagged, deeply ingrained grooves in the puke green coloured carpet. _Seriously, can they not afford any other colour? Baby poo brown would be better than looking at the upchucked contents of my stomach every time I happen to glance downwards. _I was all barely contained energy under tan skin, and I couldn't bear it. Imagine, them going off to take on bloody _Bloody_ _Mary_, and leaving us to do _NOTHING_. _FUCK_. "We could – no." I abandoned the hitchhiking idea as soon as it came to mind. Bad, creepy van-guy memories. "Then there's – no." Hotwiring a car in the motel's parking lot…not such a good plan. We had to come back here after we took down Mary. "Taxi?" I asked, stopping and spinning around to look at her with hopefully raised eyebrows. It was a passable idea, at least. No creepy van guy, no bad legal repercussions…

"Money?" she shot back, and I resumed pacing, exhaling a profoundly disturbed sigh. _Why couldn't we spend the food money to get ourselves there? They'd deserve no food after this escapade of theirs… _This was beyond bad. This was worse than beyond bad. This was some pretty immensely fucked up beyond worse than bad shit, with heapings of crap piled happily, haphazardly on top of it. I hated waiting, but I hated feeling helpless and anxious about the boys while waiting even more so. They could be so reckless sometimes; it scared the shit out of me. I'd be there, watching it like an injury about to happen, heart in my throat, eyes wide. I didn't think anything could be worse than that – but apparently, only being able to _imagine _what might be happening, tops even that. It was worse than finding out about John, even.

Well, almost.

Still haven't talked to Sharika about that yet. It's stuck somewhere down in the middle of me, just under my heart, and lumped in with the 'loving Dean', 'sex with Dean', 'mother thinking I'm psychotic' things. These quiet, bruising secrets have never been talked about either in the blinding light of day, nor the obscuring privacy of the night. They were just too close to me, too – too – _revealing_. Besides, none of them had really been resolved, and I loved my things neatly predetermined and ready made and perfectly shaped and rational before I share them with others. Considering everything, I doubt any of them ever would be. Shared, that is.

This is why I hated being inactive, hated being stuck somewhere quiet with only my own thoughts and guilt – and someone who compounded on both of these things – for company. This is when everything climbed on top of me, like some crazy, angsty game of 'stacks on Lauren'. If I was fighting I was focused solely on the hunt. If I was eating, ditto. Sleeping, well, I can't stop the dreams, but they are forgettable. As long as I'm busy, as long as my body is moving, doing something constructive, I can beat everything back, I can rise above it.

But right now? Right now when the only people in the room are me and Sharika and a sleeping victim, and the boys are being hunters and leaving me to worry, and my guilt is rising up like a tide of gorge in my throat, threatening to spill out every dirty thing contained within me onto the floor? Right now? Yeah…_God I hate the Winchesters_.

"What if we just walked?" I asked finally, facing her, and I was sure that my face was expressing how thoroughly fed up I was by this entire thing. _Pout, pout, angry, frustrated pout. _

"What good would that do? It'd be an hour before we get there, everything that's going to happen would have happened already."

"At least we'd be doing _something_."

"Yes, tiring ourselves out needlessly. Great idea. Besides, we have to protect –" she nodded her head towards the lump on the motel bed furthest away from the door. Charlie, our newest victim was asleep under the covers, and was so absolved from the awkwardness of viewing our conversation. However, that meant I had to _'keep the noise down'_ so that I didn't wake her and she didn't start freaking out about Bloody Mary coming after her again. Frigging damsel-in-distress syndrome that the boys had. They just had to fucking leave us here, didn't they? Why couldn't she just hole herself up in some dark place where nothing had a reflective surface?

I felt the futile words rising in my throat, ones thick with accusations and meanings besides what I was allowing myself to say, and looked away from her. She was _just sitting there._ Completely composed, relaxed, calm – _reading a fucking NOVEL for god's sake! Didn't she care at all? Didn't she worry? Didn't she wonder? Didn't she want to be out there, doing something?_

We'd been left behind because Dean was being a fucking overprotective asshole; he couldn't get his way with Sam, who'd pushed his _I'm-the-only-one-with-a-secret-where-someone-died_ horse until it was dead on the floor, so he'd decided that Sharika and I couldn't come. _Protect Charlie. _He hadn't even let us thrash it out with him – he'd just grabbed the weapons, and pranced out like the pansy he was, avoiding the conflict because he knew he'd lose. I could just strangle him. I could just scream. If he came in alive through that door, I swear I'm going to kill him, bring him back to life and kill him again, bring him back to life _again _and then kiss him 'til we're both dead, because by then I'll be over the worry and anger and into the _I'm-so-fucking-glad-you're-still-alive-so-let's-fuck _stage. I won't even care about consequences, because – okay, I will, but Jesus and fuck and _I_ _HATE_ _THAT_ _MAN_. I still would, even if it weren't so _obvious_ that this was his way of trying to get Sharika and me to sort our issues out, and a way of escaping the awkward tension between the two of us, _the selfish bastard_. He just ups and runs every time a situation between us becomes emotionally unstable, and potentially disruptive to his careful _I'm-so-not-able-to-be-ruffled _exterior. The fact that he was treating me like a child, not even giving me a say, just added insult to injury. Pet peeve to the extremity of wanting to string him up from the crap ass motel ceiling by his balls – and I would, but for the fact that the ceiling'd probably collapse on me before I had a chance to skip out.

Just because he's trying to make me sort it out, just because he _wants_ me to sort it out with Sharika – well, my perverse nature just made me want to suppress it all even more, just to spite him. I _don't_ do what people expect me to do, or what they want me too. I follow my own desires.

Plus…_god_, I just really don't want to have to _deal_ with it. It's all too messy and scrambled – it'll take forever. I don't want to think about it, at all. I want to just forget about it, have a minute for me time, without _thinking_ about me.

Finally tired out, I flopped onto the spare bed, and shoved my head into the pillow, waiting until I had to breathe to come back out of the darkness. Sharika was looking at me.

"What's wrong Lauren? Things just seem…worse lately. Is there anything you want to talk about?" She sounded so hopeful, so inherently delighted by the prospect of me _maybe_, _possibly_ wanting to talk things over with her. Sharing is caring. _Is there anything I want to talk about, with her? _

_Yes_. "No."

She sighed. "You know I'm here, if you need to." She was just waiting for me to crack, to ask her about why she'd left, why she'd cut off all contact; all that shit. She knew that I could never last long under the weight of my curiosity. I always caved, and usually in the first two minutes. It was one of the things that made me a good hunter and an easy person to travel with, but a not so good neighbour – the desire to know everything, to _find out_. The endless wondering, and daydreaming, and need to know about what was over that next hill, under that rock, behind that wall.

Boundless nosiness and stubborn-as-a-mule-gumption: never leave home without it.

Still…this…_this_ was different. I already knew everything; I didn't need to _find out._ What I needed was…_god_, I don't even know. There's this huge thing in my way, holding me back, stopping me from unburdening myself of all the words that want to spill out of my mouth; meaningful, babbling word vomit. Its pride, I know that, and I think just the knowledge that if I do that – if I let go, I'm pretty much going all the way there. It'd mean I'm putting trust in her again, putting trust in her not to hurt me, not to up and leave like I'm not worth sticking around for – which sometimes it feels like I'm not. I don't want to feel vulnerable, and exposed again. I don't want to have to stand there infinitely, poised, waiting for her to pack and scamper out the door on her merry way, off to do her own thing again.

I wished it was still that simple, that all I needed was time to work up the courage to ask her about _why_. Maybe if I had had the opportunity to ask, she would have lied to me. So I could, what was it? So I could _'keep my__ faith in someone, in something_'. It would have all been worse, had I found out that she'd lied later on…but…somehow I just wished I had been given that reprieve. Beyond selfish and stupid… but it would have saved all these thoughts I was having now from ever appearing.

Would it be easier if I talked about it with others? If so, who? Sam? He's the only vaguely likely candidate, and even then I fear his opinions would be somewhat biased. He said he'd have done the same thing in Sharika's place; not even one protest, like Dean had had – not even a small alteration in the plan John had mapped out. So, who can I speak to?_ Should I? _

_What the hell?_ Was I somehow absorbing Sam's and every psychiatrists' mind set now? Talking about it solved nothing. It just made everything needlessly messy and crapped up for others, as well as yourself. If I just keep it all quiet…if I keep it to myself, no one else gets hurt. Right?

I was on the verge of actually voicing this question when they crashed into the room, eyes bleeding, Sam leaning on Dean, and Dean muttering something about needing to leave _now_, and knocked out police officers. So by then it was too late, I was cleaning them up and bitching to Dean while Sharika threw the bags she'd already packed into the trunk of the car, and five minutes later we were saying goodbye to Charlie, telling her not to blame herself for her ex-boyfriend's suicide, and sitting in the Impala, heading somewhere else.

Good thing too, I guess.

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AN: Seriously, thanks everyone, as always for your wonderful reviews and imput and I love you guys!! (tears up) The next chapter is VERY interesting, if I say so myself. Gives me a little hope for the future, considering Dean - considering Lauren, well let's just say I want to slap her up. What an idiot. LOL. I'm sure you've all been saying it too, she's so seeped in denial its almost not funny. Almost, but not quite.

Promo for Chapter 20, When We Collide We Lose Ourselves, Believing Improbable Things:

_Three excerpts into the frenetic lives of our favourite not-quite-there-yet couple. Does Fate have a hand in their lives? Will Lauren gain some greater understanding? Showers, beds, desperate deities and rejected diner waitresses ensue, in the next chapter of Believing Improbable Things. _


	20. When We Collide We Lose Ourselves

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

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20. When We Collide We Lose Ourselves

_We must not, in trying to think about how we can make a big difference, ignore the small daily differences we can make which, over time, add up to big differences that we often cannot foresee. _

_-- Marian Wright_

It's like fate is continuously throwing them together, watching, waiting, breathless – for something to happen. Something _has_ to happen. It's written in her cards, fate's cards. She's never wrong, and nor will she be denied.

So, she does it again. The next hotel the four hunters stop at is almost stocked full; they don't understand how so many people can bear to be stuck at a shithole like this, they have choices_, homes_ – but they don't inherently question it, just bitch. There's a single bed room left, and there's a double. Guess who will be sharing?

It's the same old argument, and the dark woman always gets in first for the single room. She likes her privacy, and they never learn – they always jump into a fight with each other, and she quietly pays with one of her fake credit cards for the single room while they are distracted. So the other three are left, quarrelling over Sam's size, which one of them can fit in with him and not end up kissing dirty carpet come morning, and why one of them could _not_ sleep on the floor. As always, it ends up that the oldest boy and the blonde woman will be sleeping together.

Of course, fate is giggling behind a wispy grey cloud as they leave the reception, and looking her cards over to watch, to gauge the probability of what she hopes is going to happen next. She knows all about the concealed feelings, about what had happened in that bathroom – a time that seems far too long ago for both the woman and the man, though they refuse to admit it, even to themselves. After all, she was the one who set it up. She has a special affection towards these two hunters, although she's had to sharply reprimand the blonde woman a couple of times lately; she just _won't_ _listen_. She knows all about the past, the present, and hopefully – _work with me here, damnit_ – the future. The two of them just have to wake up to themselves, have to stop being so completely in denial that she feels like throwing the cards at them, just so they'd _move_ _on_. All they need is a chance, a little push, a tiny bit of interference on her behalf.

Fate loves to meddle.

The three say goodnight to the dark woman and troop towards their own bedroom, the blonde woman with her jaw and hands clenched tightly in her pockets, the oldest boy with his tense shoulders concealed beneath his worn, brown leather jacket and an unfazed grin, with the taller boy disturbingly relaxed in comparison. Too tired to go through the cleansing night time ritual, they simply brush their teeth, and then its time for lights out and sleep.

At least, that's what they think.

Fate is watching from the ceiling, behind the bare bulb of a light. The once-lovers are stiff limbed, silent and purposely not touching on each side of the double bed, facing away from the other, and clutching their half of the blankets close. Their eyes are open in the darkness, and their breathing is as even as if they were sleeping; the woman has learnt, after that first time, how to disguise her nervousness, how to make herself seem relaxed. And the boy – well, deception is an integral part of him, being able to tell a lie is a big part of his life. Getting the body language right is halfway there. Years of being taught how to walk, move, and breathe silently – _unless you want to die_ – makes this task easy and routine; they are lessons brought over from a childhood of hunting.

It is different from the other times they've shared a bed, for countless, indistinguishable reasons. For once, the male is tense, nervous almost. Unsure. And the woman, well, she's on the border of throwing an arm around him, just to see how he'll react. But she's not going to – both she and fate know this.

So fate smiles, watching the younger male, already asleep, exhausted and with nothing like awkwardness or acceptable behaviour or _what he-she wants _to worry over or keep him awake. She hates to disturb him – but never has she said that she is always kind, and she has bigger things to deal with here, other than one mortal's few lost hours of slumber. Ruthlessly she collapses the small, cheap bed, and he falls onto the barely-carpeted concrete floor, causing the other two to sit up immediately, crashing into each other and disrupting their already precarious balance. The older male falls out of his bed too, while the woman holds on, only just.

Immediately the sound of loud, imaginative cursing fills the air, centring on the taller boy's immense weight and size, the cheap motel, and crap, foul-smelling, useless motel beds. It's coming from the older boy, whose hair is sticking up in all directions and who is taking this chance to release his built up tension onto his younger brother.

The woman sits on the bed, inserting her own admonishments until the taller boy gives up trying to apologise, adds his own choice expletives and stomps out of the room, dragging his pride and sleeping bag behind him to ask the dark woman if he can sleep on her floor.

The two are left alone, in a now seemingly too small and crowded room, staring at the floor, the ceiling, and, secretly, each other.

Fate smirks, and leaves them, reading on the cards the mostly likely outcome of her interfering. The cards are wrong however, not for the first time when it concerns these two. All that happens is that the older boy is banished to the broken bed, while the woman perversely wishes that he would climb back in with her. The boy falls asleep, tired from driving all day. And so fate, the cards, the woman, and the man are denied what they all wish would happen.

_Damn him. _

000

Fate is not one to give up, despite the stubborn natures of her chosen ones. The next day she has her chance, and makes merciless, calculated, and gleeful use of it.

The blonde woman is showering. Countless times fate has used the tactic she is about to, to get the older boy and this woman together – _boy_ _sees girl naked, hopefully the oversexed boy will pounce on girl_. It hasn't worked previously but this time she's hoping for a difference. Things _have_ changed, after all. They hadn't had each other before – they could only imagine what they were missing, they didn't _know. _It would be far harder to resist this time around.

She hopes.

All four hunters had left the motel rooms earlier on their individual projects for this hunt; some inconsequential poltergeist, haunted house, yadda-yadda. It's routine, boring. The taller boy and dark girl are doing their favourite thing; they have graduated from Research Boy and Research Girl to Research Team, and are working diligently at the library to uncover every imaginable, no matter how _unnecessary_ and _uninteresting_, piece of information they can. The older boy was asking around at the police station, using his fake private detective I.D. – _Ted Nugent_ – to learn about the murders that had taken place. No evidence had been left behind, only the bodies, so the police had no clue. The blonde woman had gone to the families of the victims, playing up her honest, girl next door persona and aura – plus her considerable flirtatiousness – acting the part of a _'concerned, just moved in, they seemed like such nice people'_, citizen. She brought pie – they caved. She'd finished her job quickly, sooner than the others, at least – coming back to the motel room and immediately stripping off, practically diving into the shower for a long, hot soak, cleanse and shaving spree. She'd spent half the car ride yesterday mouthing off about how she never got time to shave her legs, that they were all spiky and prickly, that she looked like a man – and her underarms, don't even get her started. They hadn't, but she'd gone on about them anyway. The boys had sat there, shocked and mildly perturbed for the first minute, and the dark woman had tried to shush her – telling her that it was an unacceptable conversation for the company they were then keeping. Of course, this just made her talk about it in a far more animated and demonstrative fashion, as remonstrations simply fuelled the need to talk about _anything_. After approximately two stunned minutes, the older boy had turned the radio up until it was hard for them to hear themselves think, let alone anyone else talking. She was glad, inside. She'd just needed to fill the quiet, even if it was with the topic of leg hair. There was nothing else to talk about, really. Unless you counted her pile of discarded, unresolved issues.

She didn't.

Fate finally kicked Dean out of the police station, and gave him practically no traffic on the way to the motel – he too was desperate for a shower, he hadn't had one for about three days straight. Thankfully there hadn't been any hunts during that time, only long stretches in the Impala – but going days without hot water made him irritable. Everyone around him too, for some reason. But then, none of them had had access, so they were all in the same, sweaty boat.

He opens the door to his motel room, oblivious to the clothes scattered on the floor, leading directly to the place he is going, taking his own clothes off on the way. Outside the bathroom door he tugs off his jeans, going inside wearing only a dark blue pair of boxers, and with his eyes closed, running a hand over the back of his head, through his short hair. When he opens the hazel green orbs, he's spellbound. The one slack hand in his hair falls to his side as he seems to stop breathing, body freezing, immobile – and his senses heighten until it's almost too much to bear. The sound of the water and the pounding of his heart beating in his head like a drum, colours seem to grow stronger, and stand out, he can smell the fruity, musky scent of her soap from here, and the cold of the tiles beneath his feet, the warmth of the sun on his face, it's a contrast that leaves him mesmerized.

She didn't hear him come in; her face and ears were under the pounding fall of water, head thrown back with one hand holding the mass back, the other stroking down her neck and onto her shoulder, massaging away her tension. Her body is dripping wet and arched, shining and naked and golden in the light that comes in through the tiny, dirty square motel window. She's covered in a light film of soap, not bothering to wash it off just yet, and it all adds to the erotica for the man, who stands there, staring, incapable of any movement beyond the unconscious, stilted ones of breathing and blinking, and the result of blood rushing to his groin.

Finally, as if she senses him, the woman turns her head and opens her eyes, just as speechless as her mind recognises the presence in her bathroom, and acknowledges that the two of them are alone.

Fate, watching, breathless from behind the heated, steamy mist on the ceiling waits impatiently for one of them to move. Neither does, standing there, staring at each other, stuck in one of those motionless spaces of time, so yet again she takes the situation into her own hand, upon herself, and blocks the flow of hot water, sending the drenched woman screaming and stumbling and cursing out of the shower and into the man's hands.

From there it's all up to them – and they need no more coercing, no more time. Once they have touched they seem unable to stop, mouths joining, hands moulding and stroking and taking hold, and then suddenly the Research Team are home, calling out – _where are they? _– a question neither can answer coherently. By unspoken agreement they spring away from each other, and the blonde woman starts yelling about privacy, perverts and penis-pinching devices.

The other two never suspected a thing; and so the denial went on.

000

She can't understand him – not that she ever really has. But now it's different.

She's just a cheap fuck, right? Just there. _Convenient_. She's the side platter of salad that you don't really want to eat – but will if the main course is too long in coming. Who else would he do when he couldn't get anyone else? But if all that's true, then why is he acting so differently? Well, not so much differently…more so as if something has changed, when it so obviously hasn't, not really.

Women still act the same around Dean; flitting, fluttering birds, there for the taking, there to be touched and looked at with envy and lust and appreciation of their darting, flickering beauty. They still dance around him, not so unattainable, but seemingly so and their smiles hold universal promises.

And he still smiles, that beautiful, sexy and spreading smile that catches on her heart strings and pulls them so tight she's afraid they're going to snap, going to break and melt off. He still smiles, and eyes flit downwards, upwards, arrowing into equally smitten blue, green, brown eyes. He still flirts, still pulls out his lines and uses them, and the women still suggest, quietly on the side, that he joins them out the back.

The difference is that he refuses.

His smile in place, its like he pretends not to recognise the subtle and not-so-subtle invitations, and the women drift away, wondering if they've misread the signs and blaming themselves. She's the only one to notice, sitting there with coffee, or maybe a sandwich, eyes half closed, body language loose and relaxed as though she hasn't been watching the whole scene unfold. He doesn't even glance her way; sometimes he'll turn to his brother, pass a remark on their latest hunt, or make a smart ass comment about anything that comes to his mind. The dark woman, eating quietly will pass judgement on what he's said, insert some random piece of information she's uncovered that turns their investigation in a whole different direction, or even, sometimes – _rarely_ – add a quip of her own. The taller boy just smiles, and passes on. The lack of tension between the three of them is a massive contrast, unmistakable, a _miracle_ compared to what was amidst them before. The boys actually play nice with her now, and she reciprocates, gladly.

The blonde woman sits there; quiet smile perched on strawberry lips, as she wonders what's going on, mind still centred around the sex. What piece of the puzzle is she missing? Is he too tired? Not in the mood? What is she _thinking_ – it's _Dean_. When is he ever not in the mood, or too tired for sex?

The answer in the past has always been simply: _never._ He could have a dislocated shoulder, a fractured ankle, an open, bleeding _wound_ with a _bullet_ in it, _damnit_, and he'd still be up for it.

Maybe she's so horrible she's turned him off it for life. Or maybe he's scared she'll react in some peculiar, jealous, possessive fashion that'll make everything that much more awkward between them. Since the shower episode, the atmosphere has been even more strained – if that was possible. It's like all the unspoken things and the actions that had taken place all added weight to the air, made it hard to breathe and burned their skin. Well, it could be that, or it could just be her permanent state of arousal. She has to start thinking of a way to get the other two out of the way – _anything_. Or maybe she can make up some kind of excuse, get Dean to come away with her somewhere for a few hours, get this fever out of her system for at least a day or two.

But then, what if she makes a move and he rejects it? Sure, he hadn't when she was _naked, _but that was a natural masculine instinct. She'd practically been throwing herself at him. Well – that's what it must have looked like, with the screaming, and the rushing and colliding and grabbing and steadying and _touch me asshole _eyes.

_Stupid motel plumbing. _

She doesn't expect anything from him – not a discussion on what happened, or a repeat episode; she doesn't even expect him to stop with the other women and the intentional flirting and the meaningless, should_-_be_-_but_-_aren't_-_unsatisfying fucks. It's not her place to say anything at all, and besides, if she was in his position, how would she see it? She'd still go for other men. So, she'd had sex with a friend. So what? They could never go back from that, but it's not like they'd ever meant for it to happen, it was a combustion of dangerous emotions, a mistake, an anomaly. Not something solid, or desired.

She can't, and won't expect anything from him. She'll only get hurt.

"What can I get you guys?" there's a smooth skinned redhead serving them, and she smiles extra wide at Sam, who flicks a look at her then orders, expressionless being the perfect word to sum up his entire exterior. After a flash of regret she shrugs, writes down what he's saying in perfect, printed shorthand, then turns to Dean. His grin is knowing, _too_ knowing – _they all know she was cracking onto his little brother_ – and she flushes a little, ordering his order with eyes downcast. He switches his grin across the table to the blonde woman, who is surprised – any other time the older boy would have swooped in, made the redhead feel attractive and womanly, _wanted_, and then made his move – but she quickly pushes it away, after a nod of confirmation from Dean ordering the regular for them both. The dark woman, whose order is never the same, does her own, and the redhead leaves.

No answers to any of her questions are forthcoming, and so instead she starts wishing she could read minds. Or at least understand men better. And even if she couldn't have that – she'd settle for just understanding Dean.

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AN: Okay, from here on out, as well as putting in my own ideas and stuff, I'm going to include the episodes. Not all of them are going to concentrate NEARLY as much as the next couple of chapters are on the hunt, but I thought it might be interesting to try it out. Most of the hunts I include will just have a mention, like the Bloody Mary one. But since Skin is such a good backdrop for angst…and it reveals something very interesting about Dean, and Lauren. Anyways, I hope you guys will like it, but if you don't, I'm sorry. Tell me what you thought of this chapter, and about me concentrating on the hunts, because I love to hear from you guys!! Review!!

Ooh, ooh! Promo!! XD XD

_Promo for But Your Skin Is Like Porcelain, Chapter Twenty One of Believing Improbable Things: _

_The hunters receive an email from one of Sam's old college buddies, and travel to St Louis to check it out. Lauren, feeling slightly crappy, for more reasons than one – 'Blonde, beautiful, leggy, smile that could warm up a room in Antarctica. You can see why he's chafing at the bit to get his hands on this one.' – is a little unwilling to believe that they're here on an actual hunt. Tune in for cannon balls, oranges, custard apples, women who resemble stingrays, and sick puppies, in the next chapter of Believing Improbable Things. _


	21. But Your Skin Is Like Porcelain

Disclaimer: See chapter One.

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21. But Your Skin Is Like Porcelain

_Our masks, always in peril of smearing or cracking, in need of continuous check in the mirror or silverware, keep us in thrall to ourselves, concerned with our surfaces._

_-- Carolyn Kizer_

You've pulled in at a gas station somewhere – you don't know where, you've just been woken by the halt of motion, after being asleep for – you peep down at Sharika's watch – five and a half hours. You close your eyes again – maybe you'll fall back to sleep if you do. You're comfortable enough – head resting on Sharika's shoulder, knees tucked up, and back kind of mashed in against her body and the back seat of the car. And then you hear what Dean's saying, and know you won't be getting those Z's you're craving. Once your ears have distinguished actual words, you know you're just going to be eavesdropping, not blocking it out. It's a curse. Humanity.

"...then head south, Bisbee by midnight." There's a pause, and you wonder who he's speaking to. Does he know you're awake? Should you say something? Maybe he's speaking to himself. And then he speaks again, in the exact tone he's just been using, and you get all your answers rolled into one, very amusing, juvenile ball. "Sam wears women's underwear…"

"I am listening, I'm just busy."

"Doing what?"

"Reading my emails."

There's a clunking sound as one of the boy's open their door and exit the car, slamming it shut. "From who?"

"From my friends at Stanford."

"You're kidding. You still keep in touch with your college buddies?" The incredulity in Dean's voice amuses you, and you realise it must be him who got out – his voice is obviously coming from outside of the Impala. How could he have not known? Sam does it practically every night…while Dean's in the shower. Huh. Interesting.

"Why not?"

"What exactly do you tell them? You know, about where you've been, what you've been doing?"

"I tell them I'm on a road trip with my big brother. I tell them that I needed some time off after Jess." Even from where you're sitting Sam sounds distracted, almost bored with the conversation. But something about it makes you think he's on the defence. You shake this idea off, as Dean is around at Sam's side now, opening the car's tank so he can stock up on petrol. The sound as he opens the hatch makes you blink, and you swear at yourself, _be more careful, they see everything! _

"Well, so you _lie_ to them?"

"No, I just don't tell them...everything." Omission. Classic Sam making himself feel better. If you weren't eavesdropping in plain view, you'd smirk. As it is you feel your mouth quirk and fake some stirring to cover it, rubbing your face a little against Sharika's shoulder, and she mutters something that is covered up by Dean's next snarky comment, turning a little more away from you, body squirming as she wriggles her way back into sleep, away from the disruption of the boy's voices.

"Yeah, that's called lying. I mean, hey man, I get it. Telling the truth is far worse."

"So, what am I supposed to do, just cut everybody out of my life?" There was a pause, and you practically imagined Dean shrugging, bobbing his head in agreement, when Sam asked, his voice full of his disbelief, "You're serious?"

"Look, it sucks, but in a job like this you can't get close to people, period."

"You're kind of anti-social, you know that?"

"Yeah, whatever."

You hear a beep as Sam switches to another email on his Palm Pilot – seconds later you hear his quiet exclamation of '_god'_, and you can sense the shock in his voice, his deep disturbance. You wonder what's wrong, and Dean, bless his just-as-nosy and worried-about-Sammy soul, asks for you.

"Its this email from this girl, Rebecca Warren, one of those friends of mine."

"Is she hot?" _Oh great, he's horny again,_ you think to yourself, swallowing laughter. It was kind of funny in a punch in the guts kind of way.

"I went to school with her, and her brother Zack," Sam said, ignoring his brother's question. "She says Zack's been charged with murder. He's been arrested for killing his girlfriend. Rebecca says he didn't do it, but it sounds like the cops have a pretty good case."

"Dude, what kind of people are you hanging out with?"

"No, man, I know Zack. He's no killer."

"Well, maybe you know Zack as well as he knows you." _Good call,_ you think to yourself, hearing the sarcasm in Dean's voice. But you can't help feeling sorry for Sammy.

"They're in St Louis. We're going."

"Look, I'm sorry about your buddy okay, but –"

"Dean, shut the fuck up and drive; you and I both know Sam won't stop whining if we don't turn tail and head back there, now. And _no_, I _don't_ care that St Louis is four hundred miles behind us." You pipe up suddenly, bored of being disregarded, and they both look back at you, startled. You're sitting up, eying them both with challenging eyes; you know that Dean is probably going to go into another spiel if he's not stopped – about how in your job you can't get too close to other people outside of it, it was just easier that way, blah, blah, more of him being anti-social. And you really are _not_ in the mood, they woke you up for fuck's sake, and Sam – you could tell by the way he was sitting, straight backed and rigid, containing all his energy – _really_ wanted to go to his friends, wanted to help them out as much as he could. And even if they couldn't do anything, if it wasn't their problem – Sam needed closure.

"Oh, come on, she wasn't _that_ convincing," Sharika said, and straightened next to you, shaking her hair back and smiling at the Winchesters. They stared at her too, while you simply grinned.

"You had me until the muttering. You _never_ talk in your sleep, Blondie," you chided Sharika affectionately. You call everyone Blondie, it's a kind of – well, you're not sure, you just do it. You call Sam, Dean and Sharika by it, even though Dean's the only one who might actually be. And that was only in certain lights. "Don't overdramatise it."

"Well, you fooled me until you started jiggling your leg."

"What? When was I doing that?" _Damn nervous habit. _It happens a lot when you're anxious, and sitting down. It was like you had too much _oomph, _too much enthusiasm, too much _energy_ restricted within too small a frame, and a part of you took over the job of ridding you of the excess. It gave you away at the most horrible of times.

"As soon as Sam said, '_god'_. You didn't even realise you were doing it, did you?"

"No." Usually you'd go on, and get into a fight about this, or delve into memories about past times this habit has caught you out. But these days your relationship with Sharika was more of the tense, clipped, to-the-point variety – especially when you were talking to each other. You were scared that if you talked longer you might let something incriminating out. For example, _so, Sharika, you and John conspired against me to leave me behind? Sweet. Oh, and Dean and I had bathroom sex, after I found out about that. So, nice weather today, huh? _

You sighed, and turned back to the Winchesters. For some reason your head felt inexplicably heavy and light at the same time – like it was stuffed with cotton wool, but your ears had been weighed down with cannon balls. It's been feeling like that since last night, all cloudy and hazy and it took you longer to get things, as though you were a couple of seconds behind the present. Not exactly the best thing, when you're a hunter. A few seconds can be the difference between you living to fight another day, and you being beheaded.

Dean has hopped back in the car by now, having paid for the gas and the usual junk, and is performing a flashy, squealing U-turn in the middle of the road. You cling onto the back of the seat, screaming and laughing, and Sharika scolds him on the unnecessary theatrics, a grin spread over her features as she clutches with you. Sam would be laughing too – _who knew that kid was such a sucker for a bit of reckless driving_? – but he was too wound up about his friends. It seemed like everyone, the four of you, were friends these days; that everything was just fine and dandy. You can actually have _fun_ with each other – sort of. You wished it could be like this forever, that you didn't have to bring the other stuff into it, because then maybe it could go on like this. You were – you were _content._ Well, besides for the headache and the you-Dean thing; the whole tension, _we fucked, what are we going to do about it _thing.

Your hand brushes against the skin of Dean's neck as you peeled away from the back of their seat – an accident, which you immediately apologise for – and the electricity sparking from that touch runs through your fingertips, raw lust like dust motes dancing in and through your hands.

_See, little things like that kill the Just Friends, Fine and Dandy illusion. This is going to be a hell of a long drive_.

000

You pull up outside of the Warren's household with one less person sitting with you in the Impala. You'd dropped Sharika off at the motel; she was feeling a little under the weather, and you'd commanded her to get some rest as if you actually believed anyone listened to you. Truth be told you weren't feeling up to scratch yourself. Standing in the rain, waiting for Dean to pick you up after you'd snuck out of the motel in the early hours, just so you could go and for a walk at the park can do that to a person. You're sure he took forever on purpose – not because of that lame ass _'I got lost' _excuse he used. The park was five minutes walk from the motel, for fuck's sake. You couldn't just walk back because…well, this is a little embarrassing, but while you were walking you didn't see the drain, and you lost your shoe in it. You couldn't go down and get it because – hello, stormy weather, plus storm drain equals you possibly getting flushed away somewhere, and found dead. You couldn't walk back to the motel because it was a disreputable area, and there were needles and broken glass everywhere – you didn't want to run the risk of catching diseases, or slicing your foot open. So you'd made your way – very, very carefully hopping over to the phone booth next to the park and called Sam's phone.

Unfortunately, he'd been asleep, conked out. When that boy finally drops off, it's like nothing can wake him, because he's so tired. You know that he's having nightmares about his dead girlfriend. It was the reason he never slept on his back – _couldn't_ sleep on his back. You felt kind of bad for even trying to wake him up, but you really didn't want to have to ask Dean. The unresolved issues floating about made for some heavy atmosphere and not so great conversations. You hardly said anything to each other.

As you dialled in the numbers for Dean's mobile, you could feel your shoulders squaring, your toes curling in the mud stuck to your foot, and in your one squelch-y shoe. You'd had to swallow about five times before you could say his name, because you knew when he did come out to get you, he'd be coming alone. The two of you, alone. And the other two wouldn't even know you were gone. The possible ramifications and scenes this could lead to made your mouth dry.

Of course, all that had ended up happening was him asking where you were, then coming to pick you up. He'd then commenced with the bitching, whingeing, and _'what if something our-kind-of-bad had happened to you_ _Lauren_'s. They were so not worth the serenity of the park in the moonlight, drenched in rain. _Almost_, but not quite.

And now you had a cold. Sharika – she got sick at the littlest change in the weather. There was no story to be told there.

Sighing you hop out of the car, and search the pockets of your jacket for a tissue – finding none you ask Sam if you can borrow his handkerchief, and it's handed over with a minimum of fuss as you head towards the front door. You're blowing your nose as a beautiful, lithe blonde woman opens the door, and immediately throws her arms around Sam, laughing and squealing his name. You can hear Dean's swallow, and see the instant stiffness in his posture as he sees the woman. She's just Dean's type. Blonde, beautiful, leggy, smile that could warm up a room in Antarctica. You can see why he's chafing at the bit to get his hands on this one.

Jealousy and hurt strike like twin snakes in your stomach, no matter what your mind may be saying. You are neither leggy nor as beautiful as she is, in that obvious, _wow_ kind of way that attracts Dean. And you doubt anyone has ever described your smile as warm. Mischievous? _Yes_. Sarcastic? _Definitely_. Warm? _Hell_ _no_.

"We're here to help, Becky," Sam saying as you bring your cloudy mind back onto the conversation, and she nods and smiles, letting you all into the house. It reminds you far too much of the interior of _your_ old house – light, airy, spacious, cold. You can see, for an instant, a little girl, with riotous dark blonde curls and hazel green eyes too big for her face, her body all sharp elbow blades and knees, playing with a younger, masculine version of herself – they're giggling, running in circles on the grey-white tiles, around a potted plant. Then you shake your head, trying to snap out of it, trying to focus on the conversation. They're talking, but you're not listening, stuck in a world of memories and current sensations – the draft against your back as Dean closes the door, the hard, smooth tiles beneath the soles of your shoes, the way your eyes seem a little gummy, and stick together more than they should. You blink slowly, just so you can feel it properly – eyelids dropping, eyelashes sticking together as each eyelid slowly pulls them apart again. You clutch Sam's hanky; the fabric is warm from your hand, and soft from too many washes. It's a fading green. The little details seem the most important right now, and as Dean ushers you into the kitchen, you seem to notice every one of them.

In the kitchen, the woman – Rebecca – is going on about her brother's case, how she was with him the time his girlfriend was murdered, drinking beers. Because she _totally_ looks the type. _Not_. She's graceful, like a swan, like a _stingray_, moving with an unconscious elegance and flow, moving her arms, just so, shaping the air with her words. If she drank alcohol, she'd be drinking champagne or wine, not something so common as beer. You wonder if Dean also notices this as he watches her with the studied intensity you think all hunters intrinsically develop. It's something you can use to point out a hunter – the way they view everything around them through shaded eyes, even the way they walk shows an awareness of the surroundings that far surpasses normal people. She's very agitated, very worried about her brother Zack, but she _knows_ that he didn't do it – its shown in the way she leans forwards, eyes arrowing straight into Sam's, showing him, making him believe her. It's written all over her body, like a tattoo –_ 'I am telling the truth'._ _Zack couldn't have done it, he was with her the whole time._ You know as well as the police though, family is not a reliable source when you're doing detective work. They lie, because they love. They want to protect their family, keep them out of trouble. She's thanking all of you for coming down now, but doesn't know what you can do to help.

To be honest, you're not sure either. There's nothing here to tell you that it's got anything to do with your kind of work. It has denial and disbelief written all over it, from what you can see out of the people who know Zack. Neither Sam nor Rebecca can ever see him doing something like this, but you know that absolutely anyone could do things like this, could crack, under the right circumstances. As of yet, no one knew what these circumstances were, but with careful police work, the details were sure to come up. In the meantime, you had a hunt in Bisbee to be getting to, and problems of your own to deal with.

"Well me, not much," Sam says, practically breathless with his eagerness to be helping – he reminds you of a little puppy, wagging its tail, waiting to be picked up and smiled over, _look how good he is_. "But, Dean, he's a cop."

Dean covers his surprise well, smiling and nodding, and you act as though it's the truth. You smile brightly, showing that you too are comfortable, at ease with the situation and what's happening. At least you try to. He's talking to her, giving her that look from under his lashes that makes you want to jump him right there whenever he gives it to you. But he's exchanging it with this other woman. It makes you want to die, because he's giving it to her. You guess you were right all along, although there had never really been any doubt. You were just the side dish, just the convenient fuck that didn't really mean anything at all. Dean never did want you; you were just there – an opportune outlet for all those messy emotions he'd been feeling, and unable to handle. Your smile is so fake; a painted artifice. Your skin is like porcelain – look too closely you will see the flaws beneath the surface, the tiny cracks you try to hide with bright paint and loud splashes of colour. But he will not look too close, the pretty outer surface is all that needs to be seen, and the mask doesn't slip. That's all Dean cares to see in any case – he's not looking for a relationship or something real; all he needs to see is the shiny cover. It's all he ever needs; all he looks for with women is a one night stand, and you are no different. These days you just need to put on a smile; you only concern yourself with your surface – as that is all _anyone_ cares to see. The insides, beneath the mask are far too chaotic, too broken for you to have the time for. They don't need to see your true self, your true feelings. It'd screw up the calm you all have going; it'd just make everything fucked up and complicated again. You can't allow that – you _won't_. Just pull the mask down, settle it on, a little too tight for comfort, but nothing is ever perfect. Don't let them see the cracks. Don't let them see how you break.

You think your hazy head, the pounding in your brain and the jealousy that stabs your stomach is making you a little too poetic and angsty for comfort, and what the situation actually needs, and you feel the smile melting into a sigh.

"And who are you?" Rebecca asks, finally turning your way. Probably the first time she's even noticed you – but then, who could blame her when she has the Winchester men in her kitchen? You certainly couldn't, not when you were in a good mood. Unlike now._ Stupid fucking bottle blonde with her stupid perfect –_

"She's my partner," Dean cuts in, and you start, looking up at him, hazel eyes wide and expressing clearly every thought you're having at that moment – _what are you doing? Are you insane? You want to bang her, don't lump yourself in with – _"My _professional_ partner, where we work. She came down to help me with your case, Sam told us about it." _Oh. _Despite your earlier, braver thoughts – you wish he'd just left it at partner, left it open, so she wouldn't want to do anything with him. You'd been trying consciously, desperately to put up barriers between the two of you again. You'd briefly just wanted him to say professional partner so you could push him away from your heart; well from letting him get any closer than he already has. It was your regular, stay-back-get-away defence mechanism; though you perversely had wanted him to make you two public. Whatever you two were.

_This was beyond confusing. _

"Oh, where are you stationed?"

"Bisbee, Arizona," he supplies quickly, and you smile, recognising the place you were travelling to until Sam got his message. Dean's capacity for lying astounds you; it's beautiful in a way, a work of art. It's the reason a part of you can never trust him one hundred percent – with your emotions, how you feel anyway. You trust him implicitly with everything else. It's why you can never ask him straight out how he felt about you – if you ever had the courage or the inclination to do so. You'd never be sure if he was lying or not. He was that good.

"Mmmmmm…" you murmur, and wish fervently that you could lean your head on your arms, where you've folded them on the bench. But you can't. You can't show weakness – you have to be strong – have to show them that you are, that you can handle anything, that you will be fine, no matter what. _A cold? That's nothing. You're leaving? Good riddance. _"What he said."

"Are you alright?" Sam whispers, eyes slightly narrowed at you, and places a hand on your back, right in the middle. He smooths it in a circle, and you sigh out an answer, rolling your eyes and moving away from the comfort. Something like, '_yes Sam, I'm fine, just tired_'. You'll be over it soon.

And then you see them smiling at each other, and the pounding gets worse.

000

You all went to Zack's murdered girlfriend's house – _Emily, that's it _– you, Sam, Dean and Rebecca. The insides made you sick to your stomach; blood smeared on the walls, an open bag of oranges and custard apples sprawled across the table seeming the thing most out of place. Rebecca is worse off however, and is clutching her stomach, hand to her mouth as she tells the boys that there was no sign of forced entry, and then goes on about how some of her brother's clothes were stolen earlier in the week, but the police didn't think anything of it, because he lived in the downside of town, and things like that happened.

The boys snooped, and you went into the bedroom – which was the place where Emily had been tied up, beaten and gagged, cut with a knife…_god_, to die in that fashion, helpless. The idea horrified you. You can't think of anything worse than dying like that, being powerless; not having your heart pulled out of you, still beating watching the demon who'd done it eat it in front of you, not being sacrificed in a ritual to Satan. As far as you knew, Emily had died thinking the person killing her was someone who'd loved her, a human.

Finally the sound of a dog barking – something that had been underlying the whole scene since before you arrived, and was making the knives in your head, that were previously just jabbing quietly, and sporadically, start to stab in and twist repeatedly – made you walk back out into the entry area. Dean was standing in the door way, and right behind him was Rebecca, telling him about how nice the dog used to be, _the sweetest dog, _she says._ When did it change?_ he says._ About the time of the murder_.

She steps away from him, only to be replaced by Sam. The boys consider the dog together, quiet and still – _boring_ – and you switch your gaze from them to Rebecca. She's coming over to you. _Quick, think of something nice, something sensitive to say…_ "Uh, hi," you babble, and paste a huge, cheerful smile across your face. _Oh, yeah, brilliant. You're a regular agony aunt. _

"Do you – do you think you can help?" she whispers to you, obviously thinking that since you were a female, and she could hold a woman to woman conversation with you, that you'd be more helpful, more smooth, more emotional, more _feeling_ and _honest_ than the boys. How wrong _she_ was.

_Say something reassuring! Come on, you can do it! _"Oh, sure," you say, nodding. Your mind isn't really on the conversation you're having with her – you're trying to listen in on Sam and Dean. So your mouth kind of runs away with you, kind of blurts out the first thing that comes into your head. "Loads of sick puppies do this kind of thing, all over the country. Um, especially in Arizona, so we've handled a lot of them."

"Really?" she asks, looking even greener around the gills, and despite yourself you feel a kind of elation. She's got an even weaker stomach than you have. Considering how often you want to toss your cookies – _that's_ saying something. Then you feel kind of guilty. You shouldn't find pleasure in the pain of others; it's sadistic. And you had been trying to help. Sort of. _This was just great. If she vomits on you, you swear you're going to –_

"So the neighbour's dog went psycho right around the time Zack's girlfriend was killed," Dean's muttering to Sam. You know he's starting to cave; that he's got instincts that's something up around here – besides for himself, in Rebecca's company. The admittance of finding something that could be seen as suspicious in your line of work, that was the giveaway. Well, that and the resignation in his stature, kind of slumped, with his hand jiggling on the side of his thigh. You know Dean all too well, whenever he fidgets, it's a sign of _something_ going on that he doesn't like.

"Oh, yeah. Me and Blondie over there have seen far more gruesome stuff than this," you're saying, smile still pulled on over your face, as though its being held up by hooks in the corners. Your rubbing a hand over the outer rim of your ear, tucking a curl behind it, and then you move the hand down to rub at your throat – disguising it as playing with your necklace. You're lying, and you feel kind of bad about it, so you're fidgeting. It's almost as good as not lying, right? A blind man could catch you out. _Why can't you just keep your trap shut?! You're just making her worse!_

_Yeah…and?_

"Animals can have a sharp sense of the paranormal," Sam states, deliberately keeping the smugness out of his tone, although it's smeared all over his face.

"I'll…be right back –" Rebecca says, and runs away, presumably to the toilet. Despite everything, you feel bad for her. It's probably all closing in on her – the bloodied walls with clear hand prints, the realisation that, yes, her brother's girlfriend is dead, and that he's accused and probably going to jail. She hasn't had the immunity built up over scenes like this, as you have – and even with it, you still feel grossed out. So she's got to be feeling about a billion times worse. _Maybe you should go see…_

"Yeah, maybe Fido saw something."

"So, you think maybe this is our kind of problem?" Sam asks, and he's looking down at the top of his brother's head, an _I-told-you-so _look spread all over his familiar features, like chocolate on an enthusiastic three year old. You hide your smile behind your hand, and watch them, while the sounds of regurgitation hit the back ends of your ears. _You really can't do anything for her…in fact, you kind of feel like waiting outside the door, yourself, as though you're in a queue to upchuck. _

"No, probably not. But we should look at the security tape, just to make sure." Dean's unconvincing insistence to stick to his guns makes your smile even wider. You can see right through it.

"Yeah." So can Sam. He's grinning.

"Yeah," Dean repeats, deadpan. He turns around, and as though she's been called, Rebecca reappears next to your shoulder. "Any chance we can see that security tape? Can you ask, or –?"

"No need," she says, eyes hard. She must have found some new resolve while she was losing other things, namely her lunch. "I took it off my lawyer's desk while he was busy. I had to see for myself."

You drop your hand by your side, feeling a grin spread over your face – the inklings of respect are growing in your stomach. It's something you would have done – the boys would have done, Sharika even – and yet each of you are surprised at this show of spunk from Sam's previously sweet and docile college friend.

And then another thought hit you, and the growl of jealousy overran the respect. Now Dean actually had a reason to like her.

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AN: I actually kind of like this chapter. (shy smile) It gives us a slice of Lauren-past-pie and I always enjoy that. There will be a few other mentions of such things in this hunt, the next few chapters. Anyways, what did you guys think? Did you get it? Or was it… I don't know. Thank you guys, SO MUCH for your reviews. It made my day. Or days, really, every time I got a new one. Did Lauren's thoughts and everything mesh with the chapter? And the hunt? Was the hunt okay so far? I was using their original lines and stuff, and I just wondered… (hmm). You will tell me what you think, right? Un-subliminal message – REVIEW!! You know, if you want to. xD

Promo!!

_Lauren is seeping even further inside denial about Dean, while she comes to depend on Sharika more. How is Sam dealing with this connection to his past? What will everyone do when they find out Lauren is sick, what they are dealing with? Mentions of wrath in relation to coffee, Eskimo Joe, flirty police officers, angels and body parts that resemble Christmas artefacts. All in The Skin I'm In, chapter twenty two of Believing Improbable Things. _


	22. The Skin I'm In

22. The Skin I'm In

_A thousand trivialities push themselves to the front; our lying habits of everyday speech and thought are foremost, telling us that that is what 'they' want to hear. Tell them something else._

_-- William Carlos Williams _

Before we drove back to Rebecca's parents' house, I dropped behind the others a little to call Sharika on my phone. We always made sure to check on each other, make sure that the other was safe. Even now. Well actually, especially now. If I was honest, I had this nagging little Lauren at the back of my mind, who wanted to know where she was, what she was doing, at most times of the day. Just so she could be a little more secure in the knowledge that Sharika wasn't leaving – yet. Everyone left me eventually, it was a fact of life. Besides, she needed to be updated on what was going on, in case she was awake and wanted to join us. I scrolled down to find her number, then put the mobile to my ear, fidgeting, and stifling a cough that was stretching itself in the back of my throat, aching to be let free. I only got the answering machine after it rang, which meant she was sleeping – she took her phone everywhere with her.

"Hey, Shar," I said to her machine, after her message ran by – _this is Sharika Mesba, 2007, you know how these things work – boring, same as always – _my voice all husky. _Damn stupid cold. I hope the boys haven't noticed._ Quickly I cleared my throat. "Just been to Zack's house, ugh, you don't even _want_ to know; going back to their parents' one now to watch a security tape – the one that apparently puts Sammy's friend in two places at once." I gave her the address, and then as an afterthought added, "Call me when you wake up, okay?"

I snapped my mobile shut and stuffed it into my pocket, running to catch up with the others and climb into the car they were just getting in. I had to get in the back, with Sam. Rebecca was sitting up front. With Dean.

_Damnit._

We drove in silence – well, relative silence, Dean's music can't really be counted these days, it's a given – and I looked out the window as we passed by houses and perfect little shops and community centres and clean streets with their perfectly manicured trees. Such a nice little town. So boring. The sun was shining – I could practically imagine birds chirping out the tune to _'Zippity Do Dah, Zippity Day, My Oh, My, What a Wonderful Day'. _Or whatever it is that song is called…_for god's sake does it matter? Now it's playing in my head. Quick, focus on the Metallica – focus!_

Places like this reminded me far too much of my own home town; in places like this, in the daylight, it was hard to imagine that the things we hunted existed, that bad things like what had gone down at Zack's house ever happened. It made me wonder about my own life – the people in these normal, nothing towns seemed to be so happy, so fulfilled, and I wondered…was it wrong for me to have never wanted more than hunting? To have never wanted what these people had; a dog, a spouse, two point five kids with a dog running around in the white-picket fenced backyard? Was it really limited of me to have never wanted what even Sam had craved? _Did _crave? Maybe I _was_ fucked up in the head, like my mother had thought.

Dean was the same; did that mean I was actually empathising with that man whore, son of a bitch? That asshole, dickhead, jerk, slut, bastard, moron, idiot, tool, loser, dumbass, asswipe, dipshit, jackass, ass pirate, chump, numbskull? _Damnit fuck. _Does that mean when Sam goes back to school, after they waste their demon, and Sharika goes back to her normal life when she's wasted hers, that I'll be left with Dean, that it'll be only me and him, hunting 'til we're fifty and he's still whoring himself out for information? I can see it now, I'll be stuck watching from the sidelines forever, still in love with him until I die, with a pitchfork stuck in my midsection from some sort of throwback country demon, while Dean still fights on without even noticing. What a way to go.

I bit my tongue, hard. Who was I trying to kid? I loved my life. It had it's darker aspects – okay…pretty much it was _all_ dark – but I never thought like this except when I was sick and mopey, and felt like I couldn't deal with anything. And _especially _when I was in a town like St Louis. _Damn it's cheery, ordinary overcoat, and being sick_. Maybe I could ask Rebecca – _on the sly of course, I do not want the boys knowing – _if she had a couple of cold and flu tablets I could down. _Would she help me out?_

We were in the house, in the lounge room, and she was slipping the security tape into the VCR, bent over right in front of the couch – in front of Dean and me. I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth, chewing on it softly, debating on whether or not I should ask her. I was watching Dean out of the corner of my eye, though my face was pointed directly at where Rebecca was – not surprisingly he was checking her ass out. _Great, just fucking great. I wonder, if I shove my ass in his face as obviously as that, would he look? Doubtful._ And then suddenly, as though he felt my gaze, he was looking at me.

Or, more specifically, my mouth.

I swallowed as my eyes met his and I jerked them away – _damn hazel green angel eyes with his stupid long lashes and beautiful – _he couldn't have been looking at _me – _he was probably looking past me, sharing one of those speaking looks with Sam. _Why do I have to be so idiotically hopeful all the time?_ It just ended up with me having this lead weight, an anchor in the pit of my stomach, chaining me to my realisations, pulling me down. I closed my eyes tightly, then looked back up to see what the rest of the world was doing outside of my depressed mentality. These days I just didn't want to be near myself. I was becoming so self involved and introverted and emotional and _emo._ _I hated it. _

Rebecca had moved back, away from the screen and now I could see the TV. It was showing a stretch of pavement, empty except for a couple of cars and people walking past in pairs. She handed the remote to Sam, who'd been standing by the whole while, probably thinking everything we'd learnt over, and adding up connections of his own, stringing what knowledge he possessed from previous hunts and that might be applicable to this one into his case notes. I was sure that Sam had one of those very organised brains, like a computer. One that was run by a person with anal reticent tendencies. He forwarded the tape up to the time he was told to by Rebecca, one hand stuffed into his pocket, leaning his weight back onto his left foot. His hair was hanging forwards into his eyes, shadowing his expression, so I couldn't guess what he might be thinking about as we watched Zack appear, face real close up to the camera – as though he'd been looking at it deliberately, had been filmed deliberately.

I cocked my head slightly to the side, eyes narrowed as Sam rewound the tape and we watched the sequence again. It looked fine, as it was. A little strange that he'd be so close to the camera like that, but people looked straight at cameras all the time. It was a natural instinct, when surveillance appliances were in the vicinity, for all of the population. Zack was obviously no different.

"Becky," Sam said as though out of the blue, pausing the tape. He smiled at her, looking completely boyish and irresistible, projecting innocent vibes. I knew what he was doing, and even _I_ wanted to start pinching his cheeks and stuffing him full of cookies. "Can we get those beers now?"

"Sure," she said, reciprocating the smile and standing up.

"Oh, hey, and maybe a couple of sandwiches too?"

"What do you think this is, Hooters?" she asks sarcastically, but still smiling as she left the room.

Dean half laughed, self deprecating, a small smile perched upon his lips, saying under his breath – "I wish."

"What did you find, Sam?" I quickly overrode this remark. I leant forwards on the lounge, narrowing my eyes at the screen, trying to see what he had, trying to ignore Dean and the jealousy growling in my throat.

"Watch this," he said, and hit the play button again. When Zack was right up in the video camera's face, he paused it, and I could clearly see his eyes. They were white.

"Flare?" Dean asks, just to be contrary. We _all_ know it isn't.

"I've never seen a flare like that before."

"Okay, so we've got Zack's evil twin here. Doppelganger?"

"Yeah, maybe," Sam answered his brother's question, staring intently at the TV screen. I wondered what he was thinking about. His friend, being impersonated by a doppelganger, and the reason why? Whether or not he'll be able to keep the specifics and his involvement in the situation from his friends? _Would _he be able to?

_Yeah. Maybe. _

000

"Alright, so what are we doing here at five thirty in the morning?" Dean asked his brother, nose stuck in his coffee, which he was clutching with possessive, deceptively relaxed _take-the-caffeine-and-thou-shalt-feel-the-wrath-of-Dean_ hands. In the mornings he's really easy to talk to – I remember one morning I'd accidentally brought my mother into it – saying that she'd be disgusted if she could see the state of Dean's nails, because that was one of her pet peeves. Immediately I'd wanted to sew my mouth together with medical stitches, and then Dean had gotten this far away look in his eyes, saying that one of _his_ mother's ones was when you trampled her flowers. He's only like this until he's had his coffee, though – while he's having it he gets kind of nasty, and afterwards he's himself again. _And he has this really husky, gorgeous voice just after he wakes…okay, moving on._ He, Sharika and I were leaning back against the Impala, watching Sam walk around in circles, looking up at the sky, and at a telephone pole with blood smeared on it. We were out the back of the Warrens' house, _doing only god knew what_.

Dean'd asked a damn good question. One I would have asked Sam myself, had I not been rugged up with a scarf wrapped around half of my face, and the collar of my jacket pulled up around my ears. I have to admit,_ I feel_ _like a turtle_. The only part of my skin you could see was strip of flesh that happened to be where my eyes were situated in my head.

My cold had come on full force the night before, though I'd managed to repress it all in company, due to my very determined willpower. _Yay, Lauren. _It had somehow made it _worse_, however. I now had a red nose, like _Rudolph_, which was blocked, and I could hardly speak my throat was so sore. Of course, they didn't find anything suspicious in my behaviour at the moment, because acting like a mute hermit with _beyond_ anti-social tendencies was how I usually was in the mornings. I never spoke to anyone until I'd downed at least a pint of coffee, or had a shower. Since I was so '_cold'_ – I was sweating like a pig in my get up, yet at the same time, I was _shivering_ – I didn't dare let my lips out of their woollen confines so I could chug back my daily dose of caffeine.

I'd decided to come out to help the other three because they still didn't know that I was sick, and there was no way I was going to _tell_ them. They'd ban me from hunting, like I was a naughty kid caught stealing from the cookie jar, or something. And I did not want to be closed off from my job, and holed up in that dingy motel room, trying to nap so I could rid myself of my cold. Nor did I want to have to deal with the speeches that were sure to come, going on about how I was irresponsible for not telling them or whatever. _Well, hello? I'm not the only one who keeps secrets around here. _

"I realised something," Sam said, spinning around to look at us now. Sharika, sipping from a paper cup of tea from on the other side of me raised her eyebrows in question, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear and shifting her weight onto her other foot. She doesn't like coffee for some reason – and caffeine tended to make her hyperactive in any case. I have no idea how she can _stand_ tea. It tastes like dirty dishwasher, for god's sake. _Not that I've ever tasted dirty dish water. I digress…_ I wondered if she was cold too – although she seemed over her little sickness. I guess a whole day of sleep helped. _Damn her_. "The video tape showed the killer going in, but not coming out."

"So it came out the back door," I thought aloud, voice weirdly muffled by the layers of material across my mouth and my blocked nose. They all looked at me, Sam and Sharika at least _trying_ to hide their amused reactions, while Dean just let loose with a '_you alright there, Eskimo Joe?'. _"Shut up jerk face," I retorted, although it sounded more like '_shuddup jnnkfce'._ _Stupid fucking –_

"Right," Sam quickly spoke over what could have escalated into an all out fight between me and Dean – they'd been started over a lot less in the months we'd been travelling together. Like the time I'd been the first to wake up, and had come to wake him up, and as soon as I'd touched him he has this huge fucking _knife_ against my throat. Out of instinct, I'd grabbed his wrist and twisted, and then we'd gotten into an all out fight, throwing each other around and stuff. I don't know why, training, maybe? Maybe that's what he likes as his early morning exercise, considering he's probably never had early morning sex after just waking. He never spends the night with any chick._ The stupid asshole and his stupid –_ "So there should be a trail to follow. A trail the police would never find." Sam was trying to keep our focus on the job, bless him. Of course, it wasn't really _working_, but he could _try_. It was all Dean's fault that we'd gotten distracted anyway.

"'Cause they think the killer never left, because they caught your friend inside," Dean mused, after shooting me a last glare, which I returned full force. He dropped his gaze to his coffee, and muttered just loudly enough for me, and not Sam, to hear him – "Still don't know what we're doing here at five thirty in the morning…"

And then there was an ambulance, slowing down in the street next to us, and after a look at each other – and a last, regretful look at Dean's coffee and Sharika's tea, from the two of them – we were following it, quickly so as not to lose sight. The ambulance stopped outside a small, pretty house, where policeman were pulling an Asian man out of it, and shoving him into a police vehicle. The house was blocked off by yellow tape, behind which stood a whole load of people.

I quickly manoeuvred my way inside the crowd, into the front lines. "What happened?" I asked a tall, black woman to my right in a hushed, concerned sounding voice, pulling my scarf down as I went, and blowing my nose, which I'd needed to do desperately for a while now. The question came out croaky and sick sounding, which, I was glad to see, won me some sympathy points from the woman, who decided to answer. The others were too far behind to hear me – _thank god _– although Dean was only a few paces away.

"Well he tried to kill his wife," the woman said after shooting me a look, and returning her eyes to the scene. "Tied her up and beat her."

"Really?" I asked, and she nodded.

"I used to see him going to work in the morning. He'd wave, say hello. He seemed like such a nice guy." Yeah, well lady have I got news for you. Usually the nicest seeming people are the psychotics. The cranky people are usually too busy with their own lives to plan knocking off others.

_Back on track… _another man trying to kill a loved one, in the exact same way as Zack had been reported killing Emily? What were the chances?

_Not great. _

Dean, who had showed up in time to hear the woman say everything, shot me a look from her other side woman. I interpreted it as, _looks like I was wrong…damn, Sammy's going to be gloating about this for weeks. _He was right of course – about being wrong, and the gloating. Looks like they were locked in now.

Dean signalled Sharika and Sam to check around the back for a trail – it was easier and less conspicuous than it would have been had I tried to signal. Dean, _damn him_, was taller and therefore more visible than I was. Meanwhile he and I headed over to a police officer on the side, pulling out our fake police badges when we got close.

"Officers Yeats and Nugent," Dean snapped out, and we held up our badges for identification – the officer flicked his eyes on them, and over Dean, then turned his gaze on me. I could hardly contain my smirk. Looked like even sick, with a red nose that could pass for a Christmas artefact, I was more attractive than Dean to this guy.

"We were in the area," I drawled in a husky representation of my usual voice. If I used the right tone it kind of sounded…sexy. "Thought we could lend a hand…or what ever other services may be required." I twitched my mouth up in one corner and looked up at the officer from under my lashes. Usually cops were good for nothing in our kind of job, except for information and…well…maybe a bit of revenge. By my side Dean was clenched as tightly as a drawn back fist.

I loved it.

After all, I was doing it to elicit a response out of him – _any_ response would do – and since Dean isn't interested nor does he care about me, what harm would it do? None. A little safe flirting might even help in this scenario. Besides, I enjoyed the romantic attentions of men – especially the cute, shy and bumbling, or even the cocksure, _I-know-you-like-it _kind that this officer was offering. I haven't flirted sincerely with anyone since that guy in the bar – what was his name? The accountant. And I was obviously attractive to him, and this guy, which was a huge ego boost – I managed to look hot enough to get his attention, even with my cold. And it made me feel a lot better about the fact that Dean couldn't give a fuck what I looked like, as if he even noticed or –

_Because you're fucking beautiful, alright? Because you're fucking beautiful… Damnit… I thought I'd banished that memory somewhere. Focus!_

The officer – _my name is Fred, uh, Officer Fred Jenniks, ma'am –_ was so puffed up with his own ego, and the fact that a pretty girl was flirting with _him,_ that he was willing to part with all the information he possessed. I thanked him sweetly as soon as he was of no more use –he helped a _whole_ lot – and then Dean and I parted from his company to track down the other two, Dean simply turning on his heel sharply and leaving without a word. Now that I found amusing. Dean, speechless? His face was pulled closed, brows drawn over his eyes and teeth clenched as tightly as his fists. It was beautiful, really. The fact that my actions affected him like that, that is. Not Dean – _oh god, who am I kidding?_ He was beautiful too.

Around the back of the house we found Sam looking up at the sky – _again,_ _what is he expecting to find up there, angels? –_ and Sharika checking out what was in the garbage bins, lifting the lids to peer inside.

"Hey!" Dean called out to the other two, his voice just a _tad_ snappish. _Heh_. _Asshole_. "Remember when I said this wasn't our kind of problem?" he addressed his brother.

Sam nodded, "Yeah?"

"Definitely our kind of problem."

"What did you find out?" Sharika asked, coming to stand next to Sam, and facing us, a grim look in her eyes.

"The police can't charge the guy," I said, clearing my throat again and trying to sound normal. It hurt. "He was literally _driving_ _back_ from the airport when his wife was attacked."

"So he was in two places at once," Sam thought aloud, just the tiniest hint of smug tinging his voice. I hid my smile, as Dean shifted his weight slightly. He didn't like that Sam had been right.

"Two dark doubles attacking loved ones in exactly the same way," Sharika said. "Not a doppelganger, then."

"Could be the same thing doing it too," Dean said, nodding. "Shapeshifter?" Shapeshifter…why hadn't we thought of it before? Doppelgangers may be more common, but they didn't usually kill other people. It's an omen of death, a ghostly – sometimes physical – manifestation of a living person. They didn't go around killing loved ones – but shapeshifters… well, I didn't really know their M.O. so, yeah… How many people could this thing have been killing, in this manner, and for how many years without ever being accused? It was mind-boggling. And a shapeshifter – well, it could turn into anyone. We'd have to be really careful from now on, suspicious of everyone, anyone who didn't seem themselves.

Even each other.

"Every country has its own shapeshifter lore," Sharika said, nodding too. "So it could definitely be happening here. Have you guys ever fought one before? I know I haven't, they're supposed to be really rare. No one's sure how they manifest. Lauren, have you?"

I shook my head, and Dean mentioned something about a psychic projection down in Austin, that John had originally thought to be a shapeshifter. So in other words, none of us had fought one – but the other guys knew how to kill them. Of course I knew _about_ them – as Sharika had said, they were common knowledge among every country in the world, although they did go by different names, according to location. They were an easy subject, and even talked about amidst the normal population – countless books and movies have been made on them. And now I was going to get to see one? How were you supposed to tell them from a normal person? Was there a give? I didn't even know how to kill one… though of course, I wasn't going to share _that_ bit of information. It was obvious that everyone else here knew, and I didn't want to look like an idiot. I already _felt_ enough of one.

"Let me ask you this," Sam said, turning back around to scan the street, and – _yet again_ – the sky. "In all this shapeshifter lore, can any of them fly?"

"Not that _I_ know of," I said. Not that I know _much_. I tried to look knowledgeable, and when no one contradicted me, sighed in mental relief. _Plus, an answer to the continuous sky-searching at last. At least I know he wasn't trying to ask god for a sign, or something corny and completely out of character like that. _"That's why you've been looking at the sky like an idiot?"

He ignored me, talking to Dean alone as Sharika confirmed what he said on his left side. "We picked up a trail here. Someone ran out of the back of this building and headed off this way."

"Just like your friend Zack's house," Dean concluded.

"Yeah. And just like Zack's house, the trail suddenly… ends. And whatever it is, it just disappeared."

"Well, there is another way to go, Sam," Dean said, shaking his head, and looking up at the sky himself. This time in sarcastic supplication to any higher cause that might be listening. He smiled at Sam, and figuring it out for myself, I did too, meeting Sharika's eyes, and in the fashion of the Winchester siblings, tried to impart my knowledge with a single look. It didn't work. _Could they really be this… well, not stupid, but oblivious? Too close to the problem perhaps? Ah, guys, guys, guys._ I looked back to see Sam and Sharika raising eyebrows at Dean, twin expressions of deliberate patience spread across their features. They knew how he was. Dean was smirking back at me, and I grinned back, looking at the manhole behind Sam. "Down."

000

Dean poked his pocket knife into the goo we'd found down in the sewers. It made a sickening, wet sound and my mouth twisted in disgust. To my left I heard Sharika dry wretch in her throat, and the same look on my face I saw mirrored on Sam and Dean's. I was glad Sam was holding the torch – my own hand would have been shaking badly, making the light as unsteady as a drunk at midday. Dean lifted his knife and a string of the goo came up with it, clinging to it. I closed my eyes tightly for a moment then opened them again, breathing through my mouth so I wouldn't have to smell the coppery scent of blood and flesh. I considered pulling my scarf up from where it lay in thick, loose folds around my neck, to smother the smell, but then I probably wouldn't be able to breathe, and would faint in the goo knowing my luck. Even when I did open my eyes, I tried not to look at the pile of hair and skin and bodily fluids, and tried also not to imagine it stuck to my facial features.

"I just had a sick thought," Dean said, turning his knife slightly, side to side as he looked at the stuff on the blade. "When the shapeshifter changes shape, maybe it sheds."

"That is sick," Sam murmured, looking as close to barfing as Sharika did. Can't really blame them. _I know that I –_

"Let's get out of here," Dean said. "One sure way to kill any shapeshifter; silver bullet to the heart."

I nodded. Now I knew. _Hurrah!_ Now if I'm caught in a situation with the thing, and they start shouting at me to kill it, I actually know how, and I won't try to like, stab it with a stick or something. I made to stand up…and then I sneezed all over the goo. "Handkerchief, Sam?" I croaked out, holding a hand over my lower face so that the others didn't have to see the snot coming out of my nose. Dean passed me his first, and I mopped my face up, as he grabbed my other hand and pulled me into a standing position.

"Lauren!" Sharika admonished, and started fussing over me, finally deigning to note my puffy eyes, red nose and the cough that wouldn't stop forcing its way out of my throat. "Why didn't you tell us you were sick? That's dangerous!"

Dean let go of my hand and wiped it off on his jeans, turning to Sam and making a verbal list of all the silver bullets in our possession. _Didn't he even care that I was sick? At all? Fucking asshole, though it's not exactly SURPRISING, it does hurt like a kick in the gut. Make that a kick in the gut, the chest and the head. _

"Mmmph," I shooed her away, voice muffled by Dean's blue handkerchief and the cough, which wouldn't stop. _Damnit fuck! Go away damn stupid cold! _I tried to stifle it, unsuccessfully, and waved my hand at Sharika, dodging her ministrations. "Let's _go_ already," I managed to hack out, and then we were out of the sewers.

I'm just dreading what they're going to say to me for keeping this from them.

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AN: I posted early!! NO WAY!! Lol. This chapter was pretty hard to write; I had to go back and rewrite it continuously, because Lauren had a Mary-Sue phase, and it was horrible. Is it still Mary-Sue-ish? (prays that the answer is HELL NO)

I had to post this early because chapters relating to skin are so many! There are four of them! Oh well, never fear, I will still update on Sunday, and probably early again next week. I just had the crushing urge to post, and so, I did. The next chapter is angst, angst, angst and well, hey, more angst! Hurrah! I hope you guys liked this one!

_Promo for Hides His True Self, Chapter 23 of Believing Improbable Things: _

_How does Rebecca react to the news of the supernatural? What is said to her? Where is the shapeshifter, and what are its plans? Is Dean loosening up around Lauren again? Will they…? Tune in on Sunday to find out! Paper walls, strange kisses, truths and knives – all in the next chapter of Believing Improbable Things. _


	23. Hides His True Self

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

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23. Hides His True Self

_The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off. _

_-- Mal Pancoast _

They sent her to Rebecca's house after the younger boy got the call from her – the call that 'confirmed' all of the older boy's anti-social suspicions and beliefs about how hunters should live their lives. That is, secluded and removed, apart from the rest of society. The phone call had saved her from being berated on her carelessness, and sickness, but not from having to listen to Dean spout, anyway. He'd jettisoned out an almost-speech – something that for him, was amazing – about how showing people your real self caused them to freak out.

Did he have personal experience, perhaps?

She only knew that this maxim connected with her, somewhere deep inside; that was why _she_ didn't tell people – _show_ people – the real her. The dark woman, the boys – they knew nothing about her insides. And that was how it had to be.

She ponders as she walks, swinging one leg in front of the other, and watching the pavement, only glancing up to check the street names; that she's going in the right direction. Was it the same for the dark woman and the older boy – did they also conceal their true selves from everyone – from her? Wear a mask, as she did? Did they have the same fear, that need to hide and repress reactions and truths, parts of their personality, so they won't be viewed in a certain way – weak and vulnerable – so they wouldn't be discarded? She's already had evidence of this from Sharika's direction; hiding about her parents and the demon that had apparently been after her, plus concealing her psychic powers from the Winchesters. And Dean – the only time she'd seen him willingly open up to her, to anyone, was that time in the car, when they'd just finished hunting a couple of incubi, and that was a pretty short conversation, considering.

She can't blame them, really. The only time she's ever revealed all of herself – _figuratively, duh_ – was with the dark woman, all those years ago. Would she ever have a relationship like that again – no lies, no having to bury away any part of herself? Probably not – she didn't want to get that close to anyone ever again, the possibility of getting hurt again…well, put simply it scared the shit out of her. She didn't show her true self to her closest friends, let alone those outside of hunting.

But did it have to be that way for the taller boy, and his friends outside of this life? Was he not allowed friends and contacts outside of hunting and killing; friends from a life he had had the courage and conviction to start to construct for himself before it was all torn away? Did he not _deserve_ this chance? Did they not _all_ deserve some elusive promise of normalcy, even if they knew that it would never, could never be theirs?

They deserved hope, at the very least. The older boy didn't have to be so pessimistic; he didn't have to tear down those pretty paper walls protecting his brother from the truth.

They sent her to _make nice_ with Rebecca for Sam, and it was a convenient excuse for them to get her out of all the heavy work because of her sickness. None of them had realised she was sick, until the adding of the nose fluids to the rest of the gunk on he sewers' floor. She was foaming at the mouth at the injustice – if the boys had a cold, or whatever, they would have been allowed to stay on; they practically would have humiliated each other into it – but she went nonetheless. She knew she would only be a liability on the mission, and she wanted to help the younger boy out, wanted to make it okay for him – wanted him to be able to hold onto his illusions a little longer, as she had not been able to. She'd had her preconceptions ripped away from her time and again – she wanted to give this boy a chance, wanted to give him a choice.

So, she walked all the way there, and when she saw Rebecca outside didn't even hesitate – she walked straight up to her. "Rebecca!" she called, as the blonde woman was making to get in her car, her head ducking inside, fine, straight hair falling forwards and shining in the light.

"What do you want?" she asked, gripping the door with white knuckled hands, the nails painted a deep red. _Why hadn't she noticed this before? _It's said that you can tell a lot about a person by their hands, and red represented passion, independence.So her asking her lawyers about 'Officer' Dean Winchester…it wouldn't have been so shocking if she'd just looked before. _Mind wandering, stop. Focus._ The other blonde's body is straight-backed and to our woman's mind, she connects it to the analogy of Rebecca having a stick shoved up her ass. In comparison, she is loose, shoulders slightly slumped – the only physical sign of her sickness and exhaustion, apart from overly flushed cheeks – and she's smiling, even if it is mostly all bite and sarcasm.

"I had to come here. To explain." _And here it comes,_ she thought to herself, a sigh forming in the forefront of her mind. No one took the truth easily, especially harsh truths like those she was about to impart on this logical, straight thinking woman in front of her. But she didn't really care – she didn't really like Rebecca, as Dean seemed to like her a little too much. She was doing this for _Sam_, and didn't particularly mind how the woman reacted, only about the outcome, which would hopefully be in the younger boy's favour. _She could only try, right? _

"I don't want to hear it!" _Well, duh. _"You and Sam, and Dean – you may have jeopardised my brother's whole case! How can you –"

"Look, this is bigger than you and your brother, and I don't really have the time or the patience for you to bite my head off right now, okay?" _Well, that shut her up_, she thinks with quiet satisfaction. Rebecca was staring at her, eyes wide and startled, her red lip glossed mouth slightly parted. Her hands had even relaxed where she had been holding a death grip on her car – probably to stabilise herself. _What was wrong with her? Was she not used to getting talked to in such a fashion? How sad. _"I'm sorry, okay?" _Not. _"But –"

"What you did was _illegal_ –"

_Guess it only shut her up for…hey, not even two seconds! Damn red fingernails… _"Look, sweetheart, we do more illegal things than breaking and entering crime scenes every damn day of the week. So, shut the fuck up, and listen. Sam cares about you and Zack. That's why we're here. To help you out."

"Help us out?_ Help us –_" she's gesturing wildly with her hands now, and the woman realises this must be a habit – talking with her hands. She wonders if the other blonde would even be able to talk, if she had her hands tied behind her back. Maybe she thinks it looks passionate, or something.

She should really stop being so snarky – she does it herself, all the time. _Damnit. _Just another reason to dislike the other woman. They were too much alike. _Is that why Dean –? _

"Yep. Now were you going anywhere important, or do you have the time to listen to me, the person Sam – _your friend_ – sent to sort this out, or what?" She was completely fed up with this woman. First the whole Dean thing that went on with her – _flirting wasn't a hanging offence, just keep repeating that, and all will be well _– plus the fact that she was kind of exhausted, seeing as how she wasn't really at the top of her game to start with, and then she'd had to walk here – not far, but she was simultaneously sweltering and shaking from cold in her huge jacket and the scarf she had pulled back up on the way here, and the sharp wind wasn't particularly helping anything at all – and now Rebecca was going off at her? Sure, she had good, plausible reasons to be doing so – if the woman had been in her situation, punches would've been thrown long before now – but at the moment she's not _really_ feeling all that charitable.

Rebecca looks as though she's about to explode, body pulled taut and tense, mouth tight and eyes narrowed, darker eyebrows pulled down. The other woman is being very short with her. Neither can be blamed for how they are acting and reacting at this moment – although the woman named Rebecca decides to be mature, and answers as such. For the most part. "I'm picking my parents up from the airport. They've come back from France to be with my brother during his trial. I won't be home for a couple of days, I have to sort some stuff out with them and our lawyers, so yes, it _is_ important. More important than whatever bullshit you're trying to feed me. If Sam _cared_ so much, why isn't he here himself?" This question is that of a hurt, petulant child, and the woman named Lauren acts accordingly.

"He's kind of busy right now…tracking a shapeshifter in the sewers." Her voice is dry, almost bored, and she wipes her nails on her shirt before studying them with detached interest. _Dirty, chipped, broken and uneven as ever. What did that say about her? _

"A sh- – _what_ _the hell_ are you talking about?"

So the shorter blonde woman explains everything in tense, clipped sentences – made to shock and form a contrast between the words that are such simple truth, but sound like such astonishing lies. She hopes that the simplicity will show her sincerity and that it will get through to the other woman.

Unfortunately, things hardly ever turn out the way they are planned, and Rebecca hops into her car, peels out of the driveway and speeds to the airport, which is five hours away.

"Well, _that_ kind of sucks," our blonde woman says, then shrugs and picks the lock to the Warren household.

000

It's about three hours later when she's awakened from her sprawl on the couch, and she scrubs her hands quickly over her face before creeping to the door. Looking out of the peephole, her eyes scan over the person on the porch, without registering, hazel gold orbs immediately going behind them to the sunset. _How long has she been here? _This is kind of bad; she's _squatting_ in a _taken_ house – she actually _fell asleep_ – and now someone was –

_Dean_.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, opening the door immediately, and he steps inside, closing it behind him quick smart before he even looks at her. His body language is different from usual – stiffer, less graceful, and he even bumps into the vase next to the door. He had never been clumsy – he'd always been so aware of his surroundings and his own body._ Maybe he was hurt?_ _Did the shapeshifter –? _"What happened? Where are Sam and Sharika?"

"We finished in the sewers – we didn't find anything, so we're going to check again tomorrow. They're back at the hotel, so I came to get you." The older boy looked around, and she followed the track of his eyes, trying to see what they saw in the twilight. Shadows were starting to creep across the white tiled floor, and the rest of the room was stained a deep orange, like they were bathed in firelight. It was warm too – too warm, considering the fact that he was standing so close to her. She swallowed, trying to suppress all thoughts of Dean – and the sharp, distinct images crowding her mind; images of his bare skin glowing with perspiration and the dying sunlight, sprawled on the white tiles as he – quickly she steps away from him, a short, subtle step that she hides with a smile and a wave of her hands in front of her midriff that she hopes will be enough. "Where's Rebecca?" Dean asks, raking her with eyes that just make the heat worse. _Oh god. _

"Uh – um – she went to the airport, about three hours ago… won't be back for a couple of days, has to – lawyers… I kind of picked the lock." The blonde woman's shoulders are starting to hunch about her ears – tell tale habit of her being uncomfortable_. The situation just seems – maybe it's because – Dean. Dean and her. Alone. Oh god. _Noticing that she's exhibiting nervous signs she quickly unhitches her shoulders and gives the man a cocky grin to cover it up. "You guys _did_ tell me to come here, and stay here, and not to leave the premises, no matter what. Aren't you surprised I listened for once? I'm so proud of myself, you should be too, really –" She's starting to babble, realisations hitting her hard and fast in the head. And her libido. _Damnit. _

"So…we're alone, then?" Dean asks, smiling, raising an eyebrow, voice mysteriously husky, and her heart jumps in her throat even higher, until she can practically taste it on the back of her tongue. It beats there, fast, strong, erratic.

"You could say that…um…Dean?" He's moved closer, eyelids dropping halfway, shadowing his hazel green eyes, and his intent. _Not that she can't guess._ Desire is written all over his body – firm, starkly defined muscles pulled taut over his bones as he stalks closer to her, a bulge rising in his jeans that melts her inhibitions away into dust as she stares at it, breath catching. Thoughts of '_other person's house', 'wrong', _and '_he's acting so…' _are swept away until only one thing revolves in her head. _'Want him – now'. _Heated waves are coming off him as though he himself is the sun, and she feels an answering burn start under her own skin. "Dean?" she asks again, hesitant. _Oh god she wants him._ She's missed him, from that last time. She can practically taste him, her heart tastes like him where it's beating there in her mouth – he's tainted it until it's all she can feel there in this moment.

_Could they? Would they…? _

_Please, god. _

Even as these thoughts are racing through her she's backing away slightly. Something's telling her that they shouldn't do this thing, not here. It just seems – and could they really bear the strain, after the last time? _It had been so – but it had been – and then –_ he grabs for her hand, and his fingers tighten about her wrist, pulling her to him, against him. He tips her head back with his other hand, looking into her eyes, hazel green orbs glowing from within, with some inner fire that equates to a sharp rise in her already escalating temperature. Her heart's beating even faster, thundering in her mouth and ears, and she can barely think, barely breathe pressed up against him like this. _Damn asshole and his stupid effect on her… _but she'd never felt quite like _this_… kind of… _unsure_ around Dean. At least, physically. Emotionally, well, _gee_ – she felt like that _all _the time. He was all focused intent – and she wondered if he even noticed that he was hurting her a little, hand clenched so tightly around her wrist that it was chafing the skin, short, square nails a hard bite on her delicate flesh.

"Miss me?" he asks, voice smooth and dark, a swirl of chocolate in thick, heady cream. It sounded like the best thing she'd ever heard. Now if only she could _taste_ it. _Now. _"I've waited so long," he whispers against the skin of her neck, rubbing his nose over the column of her throat, the hand on her jaw reaching behind her head and slipping into her hair for purchase. The mass is loose, and the honey curls spill through his fingers like soft beaten gold, tangling and twining about the digits as though they have a life of their own, and want to show him how much they need him to stay there. _Right there. _"Everybody needs this, don't they? Everybody needs a little human touch, now and then." He's practically talking to himself, voice far away and dreamlike, and hushed, and he's looking down at her with sharp eyes that completely contrast this. It's just a meaningless brush of sound to her – her mind isn't grasping anything, sensations overriding thought. _His hands – his mouth – Dean. Dean. _

Her breathing is practically nonexistent, her head, too heavy for her neck, falls back, and she clutches him to keep her footing as best she can, melting, moaning as his breath skids across her skin, one hand tight on the front of his t-shirt, the other is still held in his overheated grip. "_Dean_," she groans, voice thick with just _everything_; desire, need, and something else. _Uncertainty_. The desire isn't sweeping her away as it had, when Dean had touched her like this the first time. In fact, it was almost an afterthought. Alarm bells were going off in the back of her smoke filled brain, _something, something, what…Dean._

She's close to begging, she thinks, but does she want… _no, she mustn't_….gliding her free shaky hand down, over his chest, around his waist. His shirt hadn't been the greatest handhold – she slips her hand into the back pocket of his jeans, and hopes his ass'll help a bit more. _Maybe she'll slip into it now, into the desire, into the heat…please let it take her away…_

And he kisses her. And her eyes snap open.

Dean's jeans' pocket is empty – and she succinctly, sharply remembers him stuffing his blue handkerchief back in there, after she'd handed it back to him just a couple of hours ago. After they'd come out of the sewers. He always has one on him; they are useful for a _variety_ of things – pressure pads, tourniquets and, well, blowing the nose. And he isn't kissing like Dean. Too much tongue, for one. For another, the overall feeling is wrong. It's – it's _shy_. _Desperate_. _Inexperienced_. _Wrong. _

_Not Dean. _

Repressing the urge to just shove him away she pulls her hand out of his pocket stealthily, glides it back up to his face, feeling just where it in relation to hers, making it seem like a passionate movement, like she's stroking his jaw, like she hasn't guessed. The faint stubble beneath her palm feels just as Dean's did, the strong line where she touches feels just the same. And she wonders – _is she being ridiculous? Is she wrong? It might still be Dean. He might actually want her. He might –_

Then she draws her fist back, and punches him in the face.

Immediately following this action she jerks back away from him, and makes to run, to reach for her gun with the silver bullets in the waistband of her jeans – _just in case_ – but then she remembers, she's left it beside the couch so it wasn't poking her in the ass and she could sleep – and he still has her wrist. _If it's Dean, he'll take the hit. Probably make some smarmy joke. And then she can kiss him back._

But then he laughs, and now she can see his _eyes_. Dean's eyes they are – they are such a light colour as to be almost translucent, with this underlying very faint hazel green tone. _Shapeshifter_, she realises in the stunned split second before he knocks her out.

000

_Goddamnit her head hurts like a mother-fucking son of a bitch. _

Eyes snap open, and focus on the thing in her immediate peripheral vision – the very large, very shiny silver knife held by a very familiar hand. It glitters in the light from the moon, which shows through a sliver where the curtains aren't closed properly. _It must be night now…what time is it? How long has she been here? What's happened to the other three – have they even noticed her disappearance? _

Why this couldn't have been some deluded, sick and very vivid dream, she doesn't know. Hazel green and golden eyes travel up the arm holding the knife, over the broad shoulder, up the tanned neck and into the too-light ones of the _not_-man, _not-_Dean in front of her. The shapeshifter is smiling at her, a smile that at once looks so familiar, but bone chilling, because of the one crucial difference.

She knows he is going to hurt her.

Her mouth is gagged, and on the cloth she can taste the copper of her own blood – her lip is bleeding again, from where he hit her, knocked the consciousness out of her. Her arms are bound to the chair she is sitting on, wrists aimed upwards, baring her forearms – her ankles are tied to the legs of the chair, immoveable. She'll say this for the thing; it knew how to truss someone up like a Christmas turkey but good. Probably had a load of practice to rely on.

"He loves you, you know," the thing said, studying the knife with care, running a soft cloth over the blade. She doesn't know what he's talking about. _Who loves her? What the hell? _"I mean, _I_ love you." It laughs.

Previously tense muscles clench even further, the ties binding her to the chair cut into her skin, creating thick lines where they lie against the white flesh as they rise against the cloths. She feels her heart stop in her chest, her mind blank. Eyes above the bloody cloth widen, eyebrows are lost under honey curls. She practically swallows her tongue.

_Oh…oh god…no it… _

_Demons lie, demons lie. It's NOT Dean saying these things. _She repeats this like a protective mantra, a spell, in her head, protecting her from hope – from hurt – from _everything_.

_How did it know that that was the one thing that could break her? How could it possibly love her? It doesn't even know her. It makes no sense. _

"It's okay that you don't love me, I know you never could. I know I'm a freak, and sooner or later everyone is going to leave me." She can't even think. _What the hell is wrong with this demon? It's like…_ she doesn't even know. _Of course she can't love it; it's knocked her out, tied her to a chair, and hasn't even taken her out on a first date yet. Plus there's the whole her-loving-Dean thing, and, oh yeah – it's a freaking demon!_ "Want to know the first time he – _I_ realised I was in love with you?" It grins at her, and then turns away, holding its head, and its jerking up and sideways in this fast, crazy way that is clearly supernatural. And creepy, at that. Its eyes are closed in pain, and its familiar features are tautened with this. It grunts with it, then pulls its hand away. Its hand is shaking. For a fleeting moment the thing's performance had actually had her believing it was Dean standing before her, asking her these things. It must have been her selfish, delusional craving for it to be Dean Winchester, for him to be real. She has to hold onto this – has to keep telling herself that it's _not_ Dean. _It's not._ It's a demon, a shapeshifter, it's going to hurt her, and it's – _it's what?_ _Just not Dean, damnit. Why can't it be? Why couldn't it be? Why can't it be Dean spilling these things to her, telling her this, making her feel at once like she's flying and falling? _Her mind wanders for a second, almost removing her from the seriousness, the danger of the current situation – she cared far more about the idea of Dean ever having any inclination to say these things to her, to articulate these emotions to her, than for the potential damage this impostor could inflict upon her. She knew she would survive, she'd be out of here sooner or later – they'd come for her. She believed this unwaveringly; so she could let herself dream, for just a moment, couldn't she? That this was actually Dean. Just for a little bit. No one had to know.

The thing smiles at her again, moving forwards, leaning on the arms of her chair, sticking his face right up close to hers, invading her personal space. "It was after we took down that spirit in Wisconsin. The one in the water, you remember. You gave CPR to that little boy I pulled out of the lake, and Sam and I tried to get our own breath back. And then you moved back and let his mom take him, and came straight to me, wrapping your arms around me and Sam and calling us brave, idiotic assholes, going on and on. I could hear your heartbeat – it was as loud, as fast as mine. I loved you then."

She's a blank. _How – how did it know that? It was…impossible. _Her mind stuttered, unable to give itself an answer to what was happening. Unable to understand.

"Anyone can see why I do… beautiful, seemingly fearless…" It strokes a finger down her cheek, and then trails its thumb under her left eye, wiping away the confused, angry, helpless tear she's shed but disregarded. "But too smart for her own good." It rears and gives her a vicious backhand across her cheekbone. Her head snaps sideways with the force of it, and she grunts, holding back the tears now stinging her eyes with a vengeance. _She's gonna kill this son of a bitch if it's the last thing she ever does…_

She glares at him over the gag, clenching her teeth on it, using it to distract herself from the bruise already forming on her face. _Great, another one. _Curls are dropping over her forehead and into her eyes, and she tries to shake them back, out of the way. But they stick to the tear-track and drying blood and sweat on her face, refusing to be swept away, so she chooses to use them as a shield, instead of getting angry at her powerlessness to even do the simplest of tasks. She can hide behind them. _She can – _

The shapeshifter rips the gag off of her face, clapping a hand there instead, and resting its forehead against hers. "Shh, shh…" it said, as she struggled, moving her head sharply, trying to get the palm off her mouth, or at least get enough space between them so she could make some sound, alert anyone in the area, _please god_ – and then it removed its hand, and as she opened her mouth to scream bloody murder, stuck its tongue in her mouth. She gagged, then tried to bite it – but the thing knew her too well, and drew back just in time, gluing its hand to her lips again. "You have no idea how much I want to hold you – touch you." It laughs, pain and sarcasm sticking in its throat, and making the laugh sound grating and harsh, _wrong_. It's moved back now, is pacing to the table where its knives are, picking up the one it had cleaned. She swallows, trying to get some moisture in her throat in preparation for a scream. _This just had to be the time for her cold to completely incapacitate her throat, didn't it?_ "It's like a hunger, all the time. _God_… and then at the library, I was finally able to. To do all those things I'd been wanting to. And it was even better than I'd dreamed it would be." It cuts its eyes to her, after studying the blade again, then stalks closer, slowly, deliberately. The threat underlying its every move disallows any spit to soothe the dryness – and as she tries to make a noise, all that comes out of her mouth is a pain-wracked sob, dehydrated, hacking, jerking her forwards against her bonds. "And then… afterwards… you were acting as though nothing had happened. It wasn't even important. It didn't mean anything to you." It trails the knife over her upper arm, leaving a blood red trail in the blade's wake, whispering its words as it goes. She tries to stay silent, but hisses as it cuts her skin, it turning into a somewhat strangled sob along the way as it looks into her eyes. They've gone back to Dean's eyes again. And she may be able to hold up against many things, she's experienced a lot in her time – just nothing quite like _this_ – this deliberate _malice_ and _hate_ and wish to wound, to _damage_ her while she is powerless to stop it, to do anything. A personal nightmare. _And the thing has Dean's eyes. It's one thing to have a total stranger doing these things, another for it to be – to look like the love of your life. Fuck. _"Do you realise what that did to me? That indifference? No, of course you don't." The silver edge of the knife has left a ruby line all the way down her arm, avoiding all the major veins and arteries in her wrist, down to her pointer finger. It starts on the other side, and she struggles not to make a single sound of pain at the sight of the trickling fluids down her arms, at the feel of that silver steel making its way through layers of skin as though they are tissue paper. The incisions are shallow, but they still burn, lines of aching that arrow straight to all parts of her being. It's like it is showering its own invisible scars onto her skin, trying to mark her as she's seemed to have marked it – as unintentionally and unknowingly as it had been. _How did it know…about the library? About the boy, Lucas, his mother, Andrea, in Wisconsin? How did it know everything, when it had only been Dean who could have –?_

The knife is at the corner of her eye now, mere millimetres away from the left socket, just sitting there. The menace it is invoking an almost tangible thing in air, and she stares straight into the thing's eyes, trying to veil her fear. Dean's eyes. _No_. They flicker, and switch back to the shapeshifter's own transparent ones, and the thing smiles again, with Dean's mouth. The mouth she'd kissed, that had shown her such passion, and she'd just hid all her own feelings away, never thinking it could affect Dean in this manner. Because she had to accept now, that part of this monster was Dean. He _was_ Dean somehow.

_Only Dean had known. But that didn't mean that it was Dean who felt these things… demons lie. Demons LIE, and she KNEW it. _

It cut a thin, superficial line with the knife, down the side of her face – almost the exact place, though on the opposite side, that other demon had, the one Dean and Sam had saved her from, how long ago? – smiling all the while, never taking its eyes off of hers as she gasped with the pain, and tried to shut her eyes, to bury and cover herself away from what was happening. But she was trapped, a spider in its own web. _Her love for Dean, and her mind, struggling to make connections between the shapeshifter and the memories and Dean, was just getting muddled, in its state. It fought to get everything clear and concise, but it was twisting everything. _

_Dean wouldn't hurt her like this. Just – just stick to that. _

The thing was smiling – no, it was _chuckling_ – as it removed the knife from her face. "There, you see?" it asked, pressing a finger to the cut, a slight pressure that none the less made her want to bite the finger off. _Don't fucking touch me, you sadistic bastard,_ she screams inside her own mind, throat working to convey the sounds. But fear has closed it off. _Yes, fear. Her body is stiff with it. _"I could have told you how you hurt me… but you wouldn't have listened. I know you. This," he presses down just that little bit harder against the cut, and she jerks her face away. He grabs her chin and holds onto it, pulling it up until their eyes meet again. She fights the hand, but ultimately loses, as they both knew she would. "This…made you understand, didn't it?"

She glowers at him, refusing to give any sign of anything, to show this _thing, _this _skin thief_, this _dirty, merciless monster _anything. It backhands her again, in the exact same place as it had the last time and she almost blacks out from the pain, her vision shivering. Its broken skin this time, the silver, unadorned ring it's stolen from Dean sliding against her cheek bone and opening the skin along it. She grunts, and squeezes her eyes closed, tight.

Time slows down, until it's hard to distinguish how long the shapeshifter has been maiming her body, the physical pain a beast smothering all of the outside world – sounds, lights, people fade away until all there is, is this dark room, the knives and the hurting and the blood that makes pretty red trails down her body, and the thing that was _not-­_Dean cutting the patterns of hurt and betrayal and old wounds into her. It hits her whenever she gets too loud or tries to move away from the blades, and the kisses and the murmured, laughing words, until she learns to just take it, submissive and crying against the gag it's once again placed in her mouth.

_It's going to torture her until it gets bored, and then it's going to kill her. _

_She refuses to just LET it. _

There are too many things she's got left to do, she can't die here, today. She still has to – still has to have the time to maybe think of telling Dean there's a faint possibility of her perhaps being in kind of sort of love with him…and she has to reconcile with Sharika… and she has to have Sam teach her how to make the puppy dog face that effective. She hasn't been able to tweak Sam and Sharika's relationship yet. She hasn't seen her little brother, Darren, like she's thought of doing all these years, just to see what he's like. She hasn't baked those cookies she promised herself at the last gas station they stopped at. There's just too much to _do_.

And besides, she knows that the real Dean, and Sam, and Sharika – they may be taking a little longer than usual, but they wouldn't let her get killed. It'd be practically their fault, sending her to Rebecca's house – _no excuses, Lauren. Now go. _She trusts them to do something, to find her. To save her.

Rightly, she finds, as she hears the sound of a gun shot shattering the lock on the front door of the house – and she screams against the gag, creating a muffled, high-pitched and staccato series of sounds that are loud enough to make the shapeshifter press his hand over the gag and her mouth, until it's blocked off.

"Shhhhhh…" it says, a long, drawn out noise that holds the sarcastic throwback of a mother comforting her child in the grip of a nightmare. It's too close to resembling this situation in some ways. The cold, amused malevolence the whisper holds, and the long, jagged knife glinting near her throat, make her stop, and she sobs silently, shuddering, as it moves away, looking for an escape.

She can hear, like a quiet, clunking answer to a prayer, the sounds of –_ she assumes, as the boys and Sharika would never be so loud _– the police, moving around in Rebecca's house. The shapeshifter's gone through one of the doors adjoining this room – and then they appear, trying to untie her. She can't allow this; they're all just standing there, covering her and the cop untying her – _while the shapeshifter is getting away_. She swiftly points and tries to articulate, as they try to calm her, tell her its okay. "In there – in _there_!" she yells against the gag, pointing with her now-almost-free hand at the door the _not_-Dean left through. They nod, realising she can make it for a couple of minutes without them, and troop hurriedly after the thing, red lasers on the ends of their automatics a dead giveaway in the blackness of the house. _Idiots. _

"Drop the knife. _Drop the knife. Drop – the – knife_!" she hears a police officer shout, struggling against the cloths that bind her still to the chair, and then the sounds of a gun going off, and hitting the ceiling, muffled, indistinguishable shouts – and more shooting.

She knows it's gotten away, even before they come back.

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AN: Hee. You guys know you love me, and I love you all. That's why my next update is twice as long as usual, and finishes off the Skin hunt; and why I'm giving you a choice!! Sometimes I feel guilty for updating on Sundays only – but it's a very practical decision, and is done for a variety of reasons. However – if my reviews number is over a hundred before Sunday this/next week – I will update early. Before Sunday. Because that way, it's like a mutual appreciation thing. This is in no way a holding chapters hostage thing… but yeah. OKAY! THANKS FOR EVERYTHING GUYS! HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS CHAPTER!

Thanks to jjackles, for always being there and always reviewing. Thanks to Neha, who I wish had an account, so I could thank them personally. Thank you to Sleepinbeauty, one of my newer, and longer reviewers, who I thoroughly enjoy. Thanks to ArtemiScribbles, who I have a deep (hopefully mutual, lol) respect for. Thanks to Sagebeth, who lurks in the corners, but reviews when it's important. Thanks Elrik Lasanti, who knows how I feel. Thanks to FormerlyPrincess-VintageQueen, who states the obvious and makes me smile. Thanks to lovestoread, who I also wish had an account, and who tells me what she thinks. Thanks to Gatta, for being another Lauren, and isn't the only one who lives vicariously. Thanks to Lilmisshardygirl, who reviewed the important chapters – a new reader. And thanks to all you other readers and reviewers who make up the hits I constantly obsess over. You all make my day.

_Promo: _

_The aftershocks of being tied up and beaten are fading – right? How are you supposed to deal with something like that – how do you take it? Well, when you're Lauren, you fall back onto a high horse called Denial, and kill the son of a bitch... or do you? Join us for a little bit of Sam's ass, nervous-turned on butterflies, screams and freak outs, and a snatch of banter in the sewers; all in Wrap It up – I'll Take It, Chapter 24 of Believing Improbable Things. _


	24. Wrap It Up – I’ll Take It

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

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24. Wrap It Up – I'll Take It

_It's not hard to find the truth. What is hard is not to run away from it once you have found it._

The first person I tried to call, as soon as the police and ambulance officers let me go, was Sharika. It was pure instinct, and I acted upon it, grabbing my mobile out of my pocket, where I'd put it after having been given it back by the police, who'd handed the thing to me as soon as they'd found it. _Not_-Dean had confiscated all such helpful objects on my person, including my knives, even my safety pin. I pressed speed dial, and it started ringing at once, before I even realised I'd done it.

Blinking away the small amount of confusion, and mild surprise – that _Sharika_, out of the three of my fellow hunters, had been the one I called – I held the phone to my ear, keeping it away from the small nicks the shapeshifter had cut into it with his knife. I guess old habits die hard, I thought, reminiscing of all the times I'd called Sharika to get me out of some bad situation. She'd never let me down.

Shaking such things from my brain, I focused on the present – and some much pleasanter thoughts. _I swear, I'm going to hunt that bitch down, and serve him up a nice fat helping of whup ass, if it's the last thing I ever, ever do. _

"_Hello_?"

"Sharika?"

"_Lauren_?"

"Howdy."

"_Oh my god, you're alright!_"

"Uh, yeah. Now would you be so kind as to tell me what happened, where you are, and where the boys are? Are they with you?"

"_No, they aren't. The shapeshifter turned into Dean and knocked out Sam, but I managed to get away. I tried to follow them, but I lost them in the sewers. I just got out when you called. Where are you?_"

"I just left the police station."

"_What? What happened?_"

"Oh, you know, nothing much. Just got tied up and mutilated by that shapeshifter thing we were hunting, no biggie."

"_WHAT!?!?! ARE YOU OKAY!?! WHAT DID THAT BASTARD DO TO YOU!?!?!?! Where are you now? Did he trick you by pretending to be Dean as well? Do you know where he is, what happened to him??" _I blinked, and smiled at the phone, which I was holding out to the side of my head, about ten inches away from my ear. I could still hear her, loud and clear. Louder, in fact. She'd be staring out in front of her, this faint, worried look on her face intensifying the usually even gaze that she presented the world. I smiled, mind jumping to the way she'd walk down the street, unaware of her surroundings, but looking so determined that nobody'd dare get in her way. There was a pause, and I waited for the next outburst. It was obvious what she'd say – what any smart hunter would say. And Sharika was nothing if not intelligent._ "Wait, how I know you aren't the shapeshifter?!"_

I frowned at the sky for a second; barely any stars in St Louis, well, barely any strong enough to stand out from the reflected glare of neon lights and the smoke from the residents' chimneys. Considering everything, the shapeshifter's ability –_ well, what ability I assumed it had_ – the memory I use to try and convince Sharika shouldn't be like those daring stars, the bright ones, the outstanding ones. I should use one of the hidden, insignificant memories, something that didn't mean all that much to anybody. One that the shapeshifter wouldn't bother with, wouldn't consider worthy of trying to pawn off as one of its own. Unless it had been thinking like me, of course. This is _seriously_ difficult. _What kind of thing… ah, perfect._ I held back the smile, so it wouldn't affect my voice.

"I'm not. The second time you saw Sam, and he was putting a concussed Dean in the Impala, you perved on his ass. I don't think the shapeshifter would mention such a trivial memory, do you?" I paused, hoping she'd believe me, then said, "Now prove to me that _you're_ really Sharika."

_"I wasn't perving on his ass!!!!! I was watching him put Dean in the car, okay!" _Pause. _"I wasn't!" _Another pause. I tried not to grin. Considering it's her, and her past reactions to me catching her checking guys out, she was going to blame me for corrupting her innocent sensibilities – or something similar. She'd never even mull over the _idea_ that it was simply her own hormones, and maturity levels rising, her interests in the other sex growing on its own. Not during our teens, and certainly not now. In fact – probably never._ "It's your influence on me! I never used to ogle guys like that! It's YOUR fault that I do now! I never used to notice these things until I met you! And Sam is, you know, and I couldn't help but notice, every female in his vicinity does, and I AM human, and, CAN we PLEASE just focus on the immediate issue – the Winchesters god knows where, hurt or knocked out!"_

This was, of course, a one hundred percent, completely Sharika response. I remembered how I used to tease her mercilessly whenever she did anything remotely _sexual-hormones-coming-to-life_ like, and felt fleetingly nostalgic. But then, reality gave me a sweet little love tap on the head, kindly avoiding the bumps and bruises already on my skull. Her response would be exactly like this, even if it wasn't her. I wouldn't be duped again; this time I'd make sure it wasn't the shapeshifter fucking around with me. There must be some kind of tell.

I could always shoot her in the heart with a silver bullet, but that was slightly extreme… and if it was the real Sharika, she'd still die anyways. _Maybe I'll just NOT do that one…_

I was kind of on the side of thinking it really was her, though. I could practically feel embarrassment, like the heat off a sunburn, radiating through the mobile. Until I figured it out a way to tell for sure however, I was going to go along, and act as though I believed this was the real Sharika, totally, and irrevocably.

"Uh huh. Back to your earlier questions, I'm great. Just a few cuts and a little rope burn, bruises from ear to ear. I'm just outside the police station, on a bench about two metres away, actually. And yes, he was pretending to be Dean."

"_Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should go to a hospital and get checked, and bring back a certificate to me to prove you have." _

"Still don't trust me, I see," I said, rolling my eyes. Not that I can blame her – the emotion is reciprocated one hundred percent. "Besides, if I were the shapeshifter, the certificate would be just the same. You can see for yourself how beaten up I am, and chew over the fact that the shapeshifter would definitely not go into _this_ much detail, and effort, just to fool one of us. Shedding and shifting alone seems painful enough, considering the remains. Meet up at the motel in a few minutes, okay?"

"_Okay, my room or yours?"_

"Does it matter?" I asked, then hung up. Sometimes her need for details and perfection annoyed me. If we didn't see each other in the parking lot, I'd just go to both rooms. It didn't take _that_ much effort or deliberation.

I stood up and stretched my arms over my head, arching my back and hearing the tiny cracks as it worked out the tension of sitting, immobile and tied to a chair so that I was at the mercy of some sick-minded skinwalker. My eyes were closed, revelling in the pleasurable stretch and rearranging of muscle and vertebrae, and the slight sting as the incisions along those areas opened, when my mobile started ringing. Knowing exactly who it would be, I debated answering, and then decided if I didn't, she'd just keep calling me until I did.

"Hi, Sharika," I said, pressing the answer button and without even glancing at the caller I.D.

"_We should agree on a password or something, in case the shapeshifter shows up again, as one of us. Rude much?"_

"Very. How about S.A.?"

"_S.A.? Okay, fine." _

"It stands for Sam's Ass, in case you were wondering," I said, and hung up again. Then, grinning, my cut lip starting to bleed again as the skin of my mouth spread, the slice on my cheek becoming wet again, and the bruises feeling just that heavy side of dull pain – _ow, I have got to learn to keep my face immobile for a while_ – I started the short, but for me, tiring, walk to the motel.

000

"Oh my god! Lauren!"

The shocked exclamation Sharika emitted could probably be heard three blocks away. Not that I mind, or anything… but it was kind of dark, and she might wake small children. And that is just _so_ not neighbourly. She rushed over to me, as I entered her motel room, and when I'd closed the door she grabbed the sides of my face in that carelessly gentle, sure way that mothers have towards their injured young, inspecting my face with alert brown eyes, fingers spaced wide on my skin, careful not to apply too much pressure, and avoiding the worst areas.

This was a rare show of affection from the woman – I mean seriously, ask for a hug and she'd stare at you like you were a leper. She does _not_ do the touchy-feely on a regular basis. Yeah… mmmmhm. Understatement. Even when she did she was about as uncomfortable as a fluffy bunny in an under three year old's petting zoo.

I hadn't seen myself since that morning; before the trip in the sewers, before I squatted in Rebecca's house, before I got my Karmic reply to _that_ action threefold by being sliced up by a Dean-wannabe. My cold, the elements, and unrelenting knives and fists must make me look more atrocious than a wood hag in heat. I didn't want to _know_ what I looked like; but if the way my face felt, and the way Sharika was acting were any indication…it wasn't pretty.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to a hospital? S.A.?"

"Sam's Ass," I murmured tiredly, voice croaking out like a frog, and I felt tears burn the backs of my eyelids. I was so tired – so tired and sore and drawn out and just so drained. I was too tired to even think, to waste even an ounce of my energy on angst-ing out on all the stuff running through my brain, on the things that could take over me. Dean – and the shapeshifter, and worry about the boys, and fear about being helpless like that again, or Sharika being the shapeshifter, or anything. I knew the day wasn't over yet, and I had to safeguard what reserves I had left, be wise in what I spent my energy on, so I didn't drop out on the ground in less than an hour. I had to keep going. It was important. It was my job.

I hid my tears, and smiled at her, trying not to move my features, so the cuts wouldn't open again.

"Sit," she said softly, and pushed me onto one of the beds, rushing over to her duffle bag and rummaging around inside, before emerging with her first aid kit, and pulling out rubbing alcohol. The police were a little too busy trying to apprehend the shapeshifter, and shooting questions at and around me to worry about a little thing like my face. A little bit of a wipe with some wet toilet paper, to clean off most of the blood, a spare shirt to cover the tattered remains of my own, and my bra, and off we went.

_Assholes._

I was suddenly, ferociously glad I had Sharika to rely on; I knew instinctively that as long as she was alive she'd always be there for me, whenever I needed her. She couldn't while she was away, but when she was near, all the times she'd never let me down, more than made up for that. She was my team mate. My fallback.

My best friend.

I realised, suddenly, that I'd forgiven her – like a shot in the head it struck me, and my fists clenched on the faded coverlet beneath me, as my mind absorbed the shock. I'd forgiven her for leaving me – I'd even forgiven her for that John, not telling me about it thing. I mean, I had told her not to after all. My fault, really. I hadn't forgiven _John _for it all… but that was altogether a different matter. I was ready to open up to Sharika again, let her into my life, trust her. I always had, somewhere under all the resentment. I did still have my fears and insecurities, but the mini-Lauren in my head – the uh, _not-barbaric, spear-wielding_ one – was counselling me and kicking me on the brain, shouting some overly poetic and philosophical crap about '_What's life without risks? The sweet is never as sweet without the bitter. And it's worth it, she's worth it, you're worth it, right?_' She threatened me with another look, raising her foot, and searching for any mutinous thoughts. I didn't have many. I would think about it, later, alone, when I had the time and after I'd had three days sleep.

"This will sting," she said, unaware of my revelation, bent over the table slightly, her body a familiar, dependable curve of muscle and softness, pouring some of the spirits into a dish, and picking up some cotton swabs to clean my face with. "Won't hurt more than what that bastard did to you though." She glanced up at me, walking over, and I saw her eyes brighten, and dampen slightly, as she bit the inside of her lip, hard, to control herself. I guess I wasn't the only one who'd had a kind of demanding day. "How, _how_ did this happen to you?" I opened my mouth to tell the story, but she went on heedless, putting the dish down on the bedside table with a little more force than necessary, dipping one of the swabs in and pressing it against the side so most of the alcohol drained off as she sat down on the bed opposite the one I was on. "Well, duh, that's obvious," she said, brushing hair out of my face with one hand, and softly running the soaked cotton over the biggest cut – the one on my cheek. My lesson, in how I'd hurt not-Dean. I tried not to wince as it disinfected my skin, pulling slightly at the scab that was already forming there. I closed my eyes instead, listening to the rhythm of her breathing, the tone of her voice, the inner calm she seemed to adjust to as she fell in to the pattern of cleaning my face, of making it passably recognisable as human again. "You thought you were with Dean, and when you turned your back he knocked you unconscious, right?"

I thought back to that kiss – so different from Dean's that I'd felt it to my very core – the wrongness, the darkness at the centre of that creature, like the premonition of a premonition, the memory of a smell at the back of my nose, tickling my awareness. It had just been so completely not-Dean in that moment that it had given me the resolve for that punch. It was the last sign that something was up, the others having been the shapeshifter's almost unnoticeable loss of complete coordination in Dean's body, the way he talked slightly different, slightly more eloquent than usual. Even the passion had seemed tainted; it hadn't felt the way it had that first time – it hadn't felt as though all my parts were coming together, as though inside me something was clicking – as cliché as _that_ sounded. That one time Dean and I had –_ let's just say meshed, shall we?_ – it had felt like my body was taking over me. With the shapeshifter, my mind had still been going haywire, even while my body was responding.

I wanted to tell Sharika about it suddenly – about the library. How I felt about Dean. How fucked up my head was getting over it. I wanted to tell her everything. It was a measure of how quickly I wanted to share, now that I'd realised. I usually tended to move fast when I'd made up my mind. I couldn't though – not now. We couldn't afford anymore distractions, the situation we were in. So I just… I just omitted it, again.

"Something like that," I said, and bared some teeth as she pressed down a little, trying to remove some dirt from a cut in my left eyebrow. She didn't notice my careful non-answer, continuing in her stream of questioning and self-responding.

"Where did this happen? Last I heard you were going to see Sam's friend. What's her name? Rebecca. And where did he do this to you? We might find some clues there."

"I went to her house, like you all told me to. Tried to explain, she didn't really believe me, and left, kind of in a hurry. I picked the lock, and bummed around for a while," _read, slept on the lounge_, "and then the shapeshifter dressed in Dean's skin came and you know the rest. What happened to you guys?"

"Dean, Sam and I were trying to find the shapeshifter's lair, down in the sewers; we found more of it's leavings from after it sheds, and thought we were getting close. Obviously we were, because Sam turned around to say something to Dean, and there it was. It hit Dean in the arm, and we shot after it, but missed – Dean told us to go after it, and it led us out onto the streets again. We split up – Sam and I went one way and Dean went another. I told Sam that he should be with Dean 'cause he was hurt, but Dean insisted that Sam and I be together; I have no idea why." My mouth tweaked up in one corner – I hoped she didn't notice, and thankfully she seemed too involved in her story to study every nuance of expression on my face. If she'd even seen it, she probably thought it was pain repression. In reality, it was me knowing why Dean had sent Sam and her off together. It was as obvious to him as it was to me; those two were attracted to each other, big time. He was trying to get them to do something… this case, at the expense of his own safety, the idiot. I could have strangled him. Instead – and since he wasn't exactly available right now – I focused on Sharika again. "We split up and searched for it, but couldn't find any trace, so we just met up at the Impala. Sam tossed Dean the keys and Dean caught them easily, with the arm that was supposed to have an injured shoulder. So Sam and I realised that it was the shapeshifter. Sam and I confronted it, it knocked Sam out, went to attack me, but I managed to fight it off, and get away. I do have certain talents that Dean doesn't know about, after all. I hid, not too far away so I could see what it was doing, where it was going. After that it sort of gave up on me, took Sam and fled. I couldn't catch up with it." She paused, eyes looking past my shoulder – and not at the salmon coloured wall, I was sure. Probably seeing how fast that thing could move, in her mind again. Her hand paused against my skin, the cotton swab stilling in its motions for the first time since she'd begun her ministrations. "It gave up on me because it didn't think i was a threat, did it?" She closed her eyes briefly, then they met mine, dark chocolate gaze unwavering, insult at the forefront of her tone, though her calm demeanour belied it. I knew that Dean didn't think she was much of a hunter – probably why the shapeshifter hadn't bothered going after her. Dean hadn't had very much of a chance to see her in action, to see her strut her psychic stuff. We still didn't exactly know how to explain that she could move crap with her mind…as well as her variety of other supernatural, and probably, to their mind, demonic talents. In this case, it had worked to our advantage. Sharika sighed, then got back to work on my face, dabbing my lip split lightly. "Then you called."

I felt her sudden resolution to prove herself to the brothers; saw it in her eyes, in the way she drew her body up. In the brown depths I saw my own reflected back at me – my determination to get this job done.

I nodded, feeling the cut on the side of my neck open again. I tried not to show it though – my pain, the sting. They were just little twinges. They weren't anything major. I could deal with it.

I _would_.

"Alright," I said, and stood up, rolling my shoulders slightly, and feeling more cuts open. That son of a bitch was going to pay, in blood, in _life_. After all the women he'd killed – the ones we know about, and all the others – the lives he'd ruined, including Sammy's friend's, it was time he paid his debt. "Rebecca's?"

"Rebecca's."

000

We were passing down a side street that would lead to Rebecca's, doing what hunters do best – blending into the shadows and becoming practically invisible, by using the movement of the trees and their shadows to veil our passing, the natural sounds of the night to mask ours, and considering the light patterns to make sure nothing reflected off of anything we were wearing – when Sharika whispered to me, her voice carefully muffled so as to become indistinguishable from other night sounds. "I know it's a really slim chance and all, but do you want to try calling them? Maybe we can trace where their cell phones are, if the shapeshifter has it then we'd get a lead and if it's the real Sam or Dean –"

"We can meet up with them. Right. Do you think they'd be free by now? Would they have escaped?" We were on the main street now, which we needed to pass through to get to Rebecca's from the motel. We weren't acting suspicious, but still being practically invisible, by coming a part of the masses, indistinguishable from anyone else hurrying somewhere. I modulated my voice accordingly, and my body language automatically relaxed and shifted to become looser and nonchalant. Sharika, of course, had already done the same. No one would be able to tell how much I was worrying about the boys. Whether or not they were free, or even alive. I mean, the shapeshifter had had an untold amount of time with them by now, and no one to stop it. _I couldn't think about that right now – I had to focus. _

"We can only try."

Pausing on the corner, in front of an electronics store, with different kinds of TV's showing different channels, we dug our cell phones out of our pockets, huddling close together, while I tried to stifle a cough suddenly grappling with my willpower. I checked in the phone book, clearing my throat as discreetly as possible, and quickly pulling up Dean's number while Sharika pulled up Sam's. We called them, and I jiggled from foot to foot as the indeterminable silence went by. It always seems longer when you're desperate, for the phones to connect, I mean. Stupid Grandfather Time. Why couldn't he be one of those sweet old guys, instead of a penny-pinching miserly one? Hmph.

The phone call went straight to Dean's message bank, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise as I listened to his familiar voice telling me who it was, that he wasn't there right then, and that I should leave a message. His phone hardly ever went to the message bank – it only did when he was in trouble, because otherwise he didn't turn it off, ever, for all those in cases, and he kept it well charged, so it'd never turn off of its own volition. I wanted – I _needed_ to know if he was okay right now. _Stupid fucking skin thief._

"No luck," Sharika said, snapping her phone shut and turning to me as I closed mine too, stuffing it back in my pocket, anxious to get moving again, to find a clue. "Same for you, I assume."

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock," I muttered, and then an urgent tone sounded from the TV speakers in the shop next to us, and automatically caught my eye. It was a bulletin that came onto several TVs at once, overtaking many of the other channels that were on. The news reporter was warning the public about a man hunt; they even had a picture of Dean on the screen, drawn – it seemed – by an amateur sketch artist. I was the one who'd had to give a description, and had been kind of vague, because of the 'trauma I'd suffered' and the 'darkness of the room' and the fact that I 'hadn't really gotten that great a look'. I couldn't _lie,_ because for all I knew the SWAT team had gotten a clear view of him and could have caught my lie, but I could make the picture indistinct and maybe only just passable for Dean. Considering the fact that I'd used mostly hand gestures and the words 'kind of like this', and 'yeah, sort of like that', the artist had done as well as could be expected. Considering the _real_ nature of what Dean looked like.."Man," I said, staring at the screen in slight disgust, and shaking my head. "It's not even a good picture of him."

"It's good enough," Sharika said worriedly, and I flicked my eyes up and down the street, before recognising a store that I had chosen as a landmark the last couple of times I'd had to trawl around town on my own two feet.

I made a motion for her to follow, moving down the street again, changing into a gait somewhere between a stalk, a jog, and the vine-walk when we reached the residential areas again. It was the customary, _don't look at me_, creeping around sort of walk, with shoulders slightly hunched and eyes trained observantly onto any area that could spout civilians, or just any Regular Joe and Jane that might notice our passing.

The Impala was still parked outside of Rebecca's house – the shapeshifter had driven it there, so it hadn't wasted any time coming to get me. I wondered what its original plan had been, feeling my fingers curl into my palms involuntarily, my nails dig into the soft flesh there as I used pain as a stabilising force.

I smirked at Sharika, using another defence against breaking apart into tiny pieces and wanting to cry on the ground for what had happened to me today, as though I were a little girl. I felt tired and weak, and not at all like myself. "It must be killing Dean," I said, as we scoped out the surrounding area, from in between some nice, cushy bushes.

"What?"

"The thought of that thing driving his car." She smiled back when I grinned at her, a quick flash of white in the dark that was there for a second, then gone just as fast, as we turned back to watch the Impala again. We were checking to see if the shapeshifter was anywhere in the vicinity; thankfully the police cars parked at practically every available entrance to the street seemed to be scaring it away.

It wasn't stupid – it had already proved that.

Unfortunately, the person who owned the skin it had opted duplicate in order to torture me, and his brother, were nowhere near as observant. In other words – Sam and Dean. They came jogging in through a side street, and then, when they saw the car, slowed down to a relieved walk, Dean mouthing something to his younger sibling.

Next to me I felt Sharika stiffen in shock at their stupidity too, and I closed my eyes, knowing exactly how the scene would play out now. There was no way the police would be able to miss seeing two, hulking males, one of them their _serial killing suspect_, walking clear as day down the well-lit street.

_What kind of idiot –_

And then the police saw them, the sirens started and they were running, in the wrong direction – in the wrong direction again – they were closing in – and then Dean was climbing over this fence, and Sam was waiting behind, hands in the air, yelling at his brother about staying out of the sewers alone. Sharika and I stayed where we were, knowing that we wouldn't be able to accomplish anything by moving forwards to help them, that we'd probably just get taken in too, and have no one left to help Dean out.

The police surrounded Sam and took him away – glancing at each other, Sharika and I knew that they wouldn't be able to hold him, and that there was no possible way Dean was actually going to take his brother's advice. Instantly we came to the only logical conclusion – split up, one of us going after each of the Winchesters.

Trust them to go all 'phallus in peril' on us – that is, the male version of 'damsel in distress'. There was no set reciprocal, as far as I knew, so I'd made up my own. Trust the Winchester boys to do it at the worst possible time, when I was as weak as a beaten up kitten, and Sharika was – well, fine, but still.

"So you're going after Dean?" Sharika asked ambiguously, completely offhand as she smiled at me.

"Yeah," I answered, before I even realised. I'd even started a step forwards, towards the place Dean had last disappeared over the fence. Then my eyes widened in shock – _had she figured it out? How did she know? Oh god, oh god – _and I spun back to her, the words spilling out of my mouth. "Wait, what, _what_?" She just kept that innocent, obscure smile on her face, eyes crinkled at the corners the only real sign of her amusement, as the rest of her body gave no indication – she was completely relaxed. I shook my head, trying to rid it of all the spiralling thoughts that were travelling around my head at dizzying, confused, shocked speeds. Now was not the time. _Focus, focus. _"Never mind, talk later."

"Fine," she said, and began jogging to the police station. Breathing in and out through my mouth to stop myself from calling after her, I ran after Dean. I knew him, Sam knew him, hell – even Sharika knew. He was going to go after that thing alone.

000

I'd gone back to the Impala earlier today, grabbing some weaponry, for my sojourn through the sewers beneath St Louis, careful not to scratch up the lock while I was picking it – I did _not_ want Dean to slaughter me. The real Dean. The – _yeah, focus._

There was a noticeable shortage – Dean, or someone, had been there, and taken some guns. I suspected the shapeshifter was the one who'd swiped all the knives. I mean, it seemed to be the weapon that got it off the most – and the Winchester brothers had a very wide, and original collection, including those made out of silver, one hundred percent iron, and others crafted in special ways and with symbols etched into blades and handles. And that was just the _knives_. Don't get me started on the guns, or the different types of bullets, either.

All part of the fun of being a hunter, I guess.

So now I was in the sewers, intermittently falling asleep on my feet, and then jerking myself awake and into a state near panic, in case I did, and then died down here, or, alternatively, got found by the shapeshifter. I did not want to die down here, in the dark, dank and nose-clogging-ly-awful-smelling surroundings. There were only the sporadic patches of light from the manhole covers to light the dark – as I didn't want to alert anything to my presence by using a flashlight – and only the loud squeaking in the corners to keep me company.

I needed to keep myself awake, aware of everything in my surroundings, every little noise, every little splash of the liquid beneath my boots that I really didn't want to think about, every tiny shift in the area that could signal –

"Lauren?" I screamed, and spun around, my gun coming up to point at Dean, who stepped back, eyes wide, one hand coming up as though in the stop sign, his whole body showing his shock at seeing me down here, his face taken aback. Once he settled down a little he affected nonchalance at having my gun pointed at him. _Dean? Was it Dean? The shapeshifter? How would I know? Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, what do I do?! Shoot it,_ my instincts screamed. But the Lauren operating outside of fear and adrenaline counselled me._ Don't be too hasty. Calm down, calm down, calm, calm._ _How would you feel if you killed the real Dean?_ "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean – the thing with Dean's face – said, putting its hands up into the defensive, I'm-not-dangerous, don't-shoot-me position. I didn't believe it for a second – its right hand was holding a gun – one of Dean's guns. "It's me, alright?"

"Yeah, I don't think so," I said, hands shaking like I had palsy, pointing the weapon straight at his – _its – _chest. The thing who'd – _no, no, we were looking for him, calm, calm, it might be him._ _Don't – don't – _"Don't move," I whispered, irrational – _irrational?! – _fear drying my throat, as well as my sickness. My breathing was heavy, short, disjointed. I felt like I was barely getting enough air – I couldn't even see the thing anymore, where I was. All I could see was the darkness, the knives, the blood, the pain –

"Lauren, it's me," the thing said, voice held at a deliberate, even keel, not moving it's hands were they were held, one with fingers out spread, on an even line with his shoulders, the other with the gun pointed away from me and at the concrete wall, fingers away from the trigger. But I knew how fast Dean could move, and this deceptive safety that was settling over my hands now, my will stopping them from trembling so that if I did have to shoot it would be accurate, it was false as the mouth it was coming from.

Then, although I had anticipated the move, it happened, and I was unable to stop it. The gun was out of my hand, clattering onto the ground, and I was pressed up against the shifter's front, hands held away from my body in a grip of iron, face inches away from his – _its_. Its eyes were narrowed and almost searching, lips pressed together as though in anger, jaw tense and gritted, and unshaven, adding to the feel of danger surrounding it. Its whole body tense to take my weight, as it opened its mouth to say something, and its eyebrows rose slightly, sarcastic slant so particular to Dean overcoming the features. _It wasn't going to toy with me more, was it? Please just let it kill me quickly –_

"NO!" I screamed, and started writhing, clawing and jerking against it, a wild, trapped animal, incapacitated by its panic, its inability to make conscious decisions outside of the fight and flight instinct. I had to get away, had to be free, it wouldn't – it wouldn't – "YOU WON'T TAKE ME AGAIN!" I yelled, voice arid and desperate as I realised how helpless it all was. I screamed in rage and despair, wordless, an animal sound of pure terror, twisting endlessly against it. _I couldn't even get half an inch away from its hold – I couldn't even – I couldn't – I couldn't –_

"Lauren – Lauren – it's me, it's _me_," the thing said, and then it was letting me go, stepping back a little, putting hands on my shoulders to shake me back into myself, to make my mind stop clamouring and panicking within the thick, clawing fear that covered it in a veil of spider webs.

I breathed fast, panting – _sobbing_ – almost, and turned away from it – _no_, no. Dean. _Dean_. It was Dean. I covered my face with my hands, trying to calm down, to settle into the idea, to _think, _tears leaking out the corners of my eyes. My mind was like a mouse, a scared mouse, running everywhere, escaping my grasp as though sanity and rationality were a cat trying to devour it. Finally my breathing settled, and I took my hands off my face, wiping away the evidence, to realise what'd I'd done, how I'd just acted. And that that was how Dean had realised it was me – the shapeshifter would have simply overpowered him, unnatural speed and strength giving it habitual advantage over Dean. The fact that I'd quailed away from him, terror and horror evident on every feature, had convinced him – or at least convinced him enough that he'd go along with me. I swallowed, and licked my lips, tasting blood. "So…" I said, once I thought I had control over my voice, thought I could emulate normal enough to get past the awkward horror. I turned back, and tried on a smile as he passed me my gun, staring at me. He was worried, although you could hardly tell – it was just in the way he held out the gun, mouth tucked in one corner as though he was chewing on the inside so as not to show any expression. His eyes never left mine as I took it, fingers shaking again. I was careful not to touch him. "Thanks." I paused, and swallowed again, as his eyes moved to the cuts on my cheek, to the ones on my eyebrows and ears and mouth, until they were invisible, travelling under my shirt; trailing across the bruises on my face and everywhere my clothes didn't cover. He looked almost stunned, body language less graceful than usual, by a minute degree, and there was a quiet fire blazing behind his hazel green eyes, as they met mine again, and his mouth firmed. He was probably still pissed about it taking his car. My lips twitched again, as though it couldn't quite make it into a believable expression, but had to try anyway. I nodded, silent, feeling the tension hanging into the air like it was a living, breathing animal. "Uh, so, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" I asked, falling back into defence mode. Humour.

_No more screaming and crazy woman panic, please and thank you. I can deal. I am strong, Dean, its DEAN. I'm safe. _

"But this is a nice place," he said finally, voice so devoid of any emotion I knew he was holding himself so rigidly in check that it was scary, almost. When he was like this, impenetrable, couldn't even fake mild humour or flirtation, something was beyond up – it was nearing the stratosphere.

"Like I said, what are _you_ doing here?"

And his mouth twitched, just like mine had. "I could ask the same," he said.

"Oh, hmm, I wonder," I said dryly, swallowing again, throat clogged, as we started to walk down the tunnel. "Sharika and I decided to pay a little trip to Rebecca's last night, just about the time you and Sam did. We saw you, and the police. And we know you. Which is why I'm here, and Sharika went to see Sammy boy. You didn't keep your promise to him."

"You knew I wouldn't. Hell, even he knew I wouldn't," he said, candlelight suddenly illuminating bloodstained clothes, piles of goo, photos and other effects as we turned a corner – it was the shapeshifter's lair. The floor was pretty much devoid of the putrid water covering the rest of the concrete in this place – the same couldn't really be said for the smell, unfortunately. I could smell the sewerage through my blocked nose. From the wall to the ceilings were a thick coating of scum and damp, the material crumbling away to show the steel pillars beneath. Pillars stood throughout the room too, and ropes stood at the base of two of them. Glancing covertly at Dean's wrists – raw red from rope burn – I guessed he'd been here before. But nobody was home. "Damnit," Dean muttered, after sweeping the area with his gun, checking the whole space for a direction to where it might have gone. "Where is that son of a bitch?"

I found myself at a small table, covered with most of the miscellaneous debris, and poked my gun through it, overturning bloody, stained and torn clothes and books and candles – and then I saw the photograph. It was just like the one that had been in Zack's house.

Zack and Rebecca.

And Sam.

I stared at it, a warning jangling like a bell inside my head, the meaning of which I couldn't quite grasp. And then my phone started ringing, vibrating in my pocket against my thigh, and I flicked it open to see Sharika's number flashing on the screen. And then it cut off.

I stared at the mobile, blinking at it, the sense of unease growing stronger, and then pressed speed dial, to call her back. All I got was the recorded message, telling me that the phone I was calling was unavailable. Then, mentally I counted the number of rings that had passed. _One, two…three_. I closed my eyes, mouth opening involuntarily, bottom lip trembling slightly before I bit down on it and winced, tasting metal. Sharika and I had worked out a system – mere months into our partnership. It was a signal to each other, one ring for when we'd found good information, two rings for 'the police caught me', three for 'SOS' – we were in a life and death situation. Once we'd let the number of rings go by we'd hang up and if was three rings turn off our phone – as we were lucky we still had it even – and expect the recipient to answer us as soon as they were able. It was a clear message – one Sharika and I always used when ever we had our mobiles still on us, but couldn't talk. And she wouldn't have left Sam, so…

_Three rings. _

"Did Sam say he was going to go anywhere today?" I asked, clenching my jaw so hard it felt like it was going to break, splinter off into thousands of tiny pieces.

"Rebecca's. He wanted to check in on her." Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. No one but me knew where Rebecca had gone – that she wouldn't be back for a couple of days, at least. No one but me, and the shapeshifter. "What – why?"

"They're in trouble."

000

We burst in to Rebecca's house, guns cocked, eyes fierce to see –

That I was right.

Shapeshifter Dean was on top of Sam, straddling him, hands around his neck, squeezing the life out of him. I stopped sharply in my tracks, aiming my gun, but it was in too awkward a position to hit anything major. Thankfully, Sharika swung a broken piece of shelf at its head, presumably from the broken bookshelf against the wall, using the wood like it was a baseball bat and it stumbled backwards off of Sam, clutching its face, and spinning around to us as Dean shouted out a – "Hey!" – and then shot it in the heart. Six times – still clicking the gun after it was empty, face blank, eyes cold.

Sharika crouched down and put Sam's gasping head in her lap, stroking away the strands of hair sticking to his high forehead, and Dean walked up to the shapeshifter where it lay strewn across a table in the corner, near the window, his face grim and his movements purposefully smooth. At the force of the bullets connecting with its flesh, it had been jerked backwards, where it crashed into the wall, then fell, sprawling across the coffee table, its hands dangling off, its chest illuminated by dusky light streaming in through the windows. The scarlet holes in its shirt and musculature were evident. Dean may have looked completely normal to anyone else viewing him, but I could see that his gait was stilted, even if it was only by the smallest amount. This was the first time he'd actually viewed the thing that had copied his whole skin, and he'd just walked in on it strangling his baby brother, so… He pulled his necklace – a scarab necklace, a charm to ward off evil – off of the shapeshifter sharply, stuffing it into his pocket, and then I got an unfettered view of the body. It lay on its back, head hanging off the table, eyes completely black from the shadows angled across its face. Its mouth was open and its face cleaner than Dean's own grimy, sweaty one. As I stared at it, I realised I'd never seen anything more horrible.

This was the thing that had tie me to a chair, cut me to shreds, and even, for a minute made me believe that Dean had any sort of feelings for me – which in a way, hurt even more than the knives. Due to deprivation in the area of human affection, it had just been saying, doing anything it could to make me reciprocate – even if it was kind of psychotic and vicious. I suppose I could understand that, a little. Never being accepted, or loved, it had become twisted and unrecognisable from what it had originally been, an ugly thing that had had to learn to become someone else in order to survive.

Would I ever end up as it had, killing without regard for who it was, or why? If I continued on this track I was on, untrusting of everyone around me, hiding my self away for fear of being rejected at my face value, would I become as warped as this monster? Looking for affection in the only way it knew how, by force, so it wouldn't have that element of risk? Speaking of affection…

This thing was Dean – even if it was in some minute, artificial way – and I had to think, what would it be like when _Dean_ died? Would it be like this, so sudden and sharp, just like a gunshot? Would it be something slow, painful, and torturous like what the shapeshifter had had me going through? Would he die a hunter, or an old man? Would he die happy? Would I be there?

I felt my insides break up. Any thought of Dean, hurt, or hurting, was enough to make me want to damage things, or namely, anyone who dared to do that to him. Of course, I'd never tell anyone that. I felt the same way about Sam and Sharika – seeing that thing with its hands around Sam's neck, his vulnerability and mortality as clear as day, my heart had stopped inside my chest. I'd had ample opportunities to see each of my comrades in such positions, as they had me, but it never got any easier. This job was dangerous enough as it was, thinking about how it all might end like this – _was it worth it?_ The anonymity and removal from everyday life, always being an outcast, with no one but ourselves and each other to rely on? The perpetual danger and fear, the possibility of dying like this? The very thought of it gave me butterflies in my stomach.

_Wait, what?_

My eyes widened in shock, and I glanced around the room in blank horror that I tried to disguise, by keeping the rest of my face drawn and expressionless. I couldn't control my eyes though, the hazel green and golden orbs widened until I was afraid they'd fall out of their sockets. _The thought of death and dying gives me butterflies in my stomach? Like, nervous, turned on butterflies?!_

I have been a hunter for far, _far_ too long.

I shook my head, trying to convince myself that I was just tired, and I was definitely not into supernatural necrophilia, trying to rationalize the feeling. It was probably just a result of a lack of sleep and food, and the sight of blood – although that never really affected me these days… Maybe it was a result of Dean's proximity or something… his nearness usually did make me feel breathless, and like I was coming apart at the seams. It gave me butterflies, ones that seemed to beat just under my heart, the feathery touch of wings just brushing the undersides. So, yeah, that has to be _–_

Dean left the room.

The butterflies remained.

I swallowed. There has to be some sort of explanation…my eyes fell on Sharika and Sam, who were still in the same positions they were, last time I looked. Sam's head in Sharika's lap, with her bent over him, trying to soothe him into breathing properly through his crushed windpipe. Maybe it was him – maybe I was still scared for Sam, and I was mistaking fear for – uh – desire. My gaze shifted to Sharika …her cheeks slightly flushed…her demeanour slightly breathless…a look that you'd expect to be accompanied with stomach fluttering…

_No, no way._

Sam shifted up onto his knees with Sharika's help as I stared, hearing Dean muttering to himself and packing up all his weaponry that the shapeshifter had transferred ownership of in the other room. He got up onto his knees and then stood shakily, walking past me to help Dean. As he passed, I stroked a hand down his arm and smiled up at him questioningly – _are you okay?_ – trying to see if I really was attracted to Sam. He nodded, quirked his mouth, and went to help his brother.

I glanced at Sharika, and realised that although the butterflies were still there, they were droopy now – almost melancholy. Can you _have_ sad nervous-horny butterflies? I looked Sharika up and down, mouth pulling south in the right corner. "No _way_ am I that close to you," I said simply, shaking my head with a mild feeling of shock and slight anxiety, mixed with a healthy dose of cynicism and _no-way-in-hell-ism_. Feeling someone else's – what? Emotions? "I _can't_ be."

"What?" she asked, confused. She wasn't the only one.

000

"Dean," I said, injecting confidence and casualness that I didn't feel into my voice. Curiosity, and the need to _just-fucking-know-and-get-it-over-with-already_ had sharp, annoying claws in my back, and wouldn't let go until I asked. Still, I tried to force the words back down under my stomach where they belonged – a futile effort, because the next second I was blurting, "Do demons always lie?" and waiting, fighting to keep my breathing steady and normal sounding, shoving some more weapons into the boot of the Impala.

He paused next to me, in the act of scrubbing my blood off of a knife – _Dean's favourite, besides the one he kept in his ankle sheath_ – and I tried not to glance at him, tried not to think, or read anything into his suddenly stiff posture. Still, I saw his hands cease in the act of cleaning, saw his hands clench around the handle, before purposely relaxing until the tension was less white-knuckled-obvious, and had to let my trapped air go slowly through my nose. "Not always."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Well," he said, shot a glance at me that I caught out of the corner of my eye, then slid the knife back in its casing. Watching Dean make those simple, normal movements, the regular things that made up our existence so fully, knowing it was him, just made me a little more comfortable – a _little_. Still wasn't going to be touching him any time soon. And was _also_ still waiting a tad anxiously for Sam and Sharika to come out from making some token effort to clean Rebecca's house. "Sometimes they'll tell you the truth – especially if they think it'll mess with your head in some way. Why do you ask?"

"Uh…no reason." _No way, _I thought succinctly. _Dean's a moron, I'll ask Sam. _

Of course that was a complete lie, and my more truthful side – _maybe my conscience, if I had one_ – spoke up, or tried to, really, before I derailed it – _loudly_. _He's not a moro- NO, HE IS! SHUT UP! JUST LOOK AT THAT ASS – _I did so, taking a peek as he hauled the duffel off of the ground – _WHAT SMART GUY HAS AN ASS LIKE THAT?! NO ONE, THAT'S WHO!_

My mind was refusing to admit Sam was just one other exception, and that Dean _was_ fucking smart, instead focusing on helping him manoeuvre the bag into the boot. Closing the boot, I smiled at him, and he grinned back, that half dirty, spreading grin I loved so much, before it faded, and he just looked at me. This really intense, almost searching look that I couldn't even try to dodge, that softened his whole face and my whole bone structure. If I had to give it a name, or pinpoint some kind of emotion into it, I could only say, 'thank god she's okay' – and even that's tainted by my obvious bias.

He was probably thinking about how ugly I looked with my face all crusty and cut up and looking like a slab of beaten red meat. How did I know I looked like this? The Impala was too fucking shiny for comfort, that's how.

"So, now I'm legally declared dead..." Dean said slowly, then gave me a wicked look from under his eyelashes that made my heartbeat rocket up to approximately a thousand beats per minute. "We can leave Sammy to do his thing with Shar and we'll run away together someplace nice," he continued finally, and the grin appeared again, smearing across his mouth as his words smeared their way across my heart. _Damn him_, I thought, dismissing it mentally, while the rest of my insides bounced up and down with optimism, glee, and something akin to hope. _No, no – no. Still have to talk to Sam. Because it just CAN'T be true. It just can't be. He – damnit. _

"Sure, but I get to choose where," I said finally, and smirked, giving him a 'yeah, right' look that I couldn't fake. "Some place nice, to us? I'm thinking… Mexico?"

000

Sharika and Dean were putting the bags in the Impala, which we'd packed as soon as we'd gotten back from Rebecca's. Sam had left her a note, and some money to cover the expenses of all the broken furniture – Dean didn't know about it, which was good, because he'd be bitching about it for days afterwards. I knew Sam felt bad about leaving without getting a chance to explain, but we didn't have a choice. The shapeshifter was thought to be the real Dean Winchester now, and the real murderer. So, no one would really like seeing a duplicate wandering around town, unquestionably alive and well.

I'd stayed inside, because I couldn't get one last question off my tired mind, and I felt, from a scattering of comments on the way to the motel, that Sam might be able to answer it.

"Sam…" I said, making him pause in the doorway and look back at me, where I stood in the middle of the room, clutching a pillow to my chest. It was a habit, ingrained into me from childhood, to make a bed as soon as I'd gotten up in the morning. Unfortunately – I hadn't had the time before, and had to make it now, before we left. I didn't like to make other people do unnecessary tasks I could do for myself, because I _could_ do it myself – and besides, I'd seen the cleaning lady here. She was a woman about my grandmother's age, and looked like some hybrid bird and just-washed grey-shirt concoction. And now I just couldn't seem to let go of the pillow. It seemed borne out of my reluctance to even let the question pass my lips, to find out if he could confirm what I instinctively had put together on the ride here, and had tried to deny after what Dean had said. It could also be viewed as a physical barrier against what I might – what I might be told.

"Yes, Lauren?"

"Did the shapeshifter – I mean, did he say anything? To you? When he was Dean? That was…I don't know… strange?" I felt a flush building up the back of my neck, and was glad the room was dark. The windows hadn't been set according to any real plan, it seemed, and were covered with thick green curtains, anyway.All the better to hide away from everyone's scrutiny, while seeming to be in clear view.

_Maybe – maybe he wouldn't answer. It was Sam. He didn't let out information that he hadn't figured out, and if the shapeshifter had given him a revelation like it had given me, he certainly wouldn't be well adjusted enough to spill, yet. If ever. I didn't have to know – I could still stop him. What if he – what if he said yes, what if what the shapeshifter had said – what if it was true? What if Dean did love me? Could love me? Maybe? No, no, no, no – no! I don't want to know!_

I opened my mouth to take the question back, too scared to know, too scared to think of letting the words open me up even that little bit more – but he answered too quickly.

"Yeah, he was talking to me about how he felt abandoned, jealous of my life. I can't bring myself to ask Dean about it though – demons lie, and, well, it's Dean." He gave me a small smile, studying me from under his brown brows, blue green magnifiers considering every detail of my deshabille appearance, and I had to admit – I knew how _that_ felt, personally. I bit down on the insides of my cheeks so I wouldn't make a sound, hitting the raw spots I'd already drawn blood from in an effort to conceal my weaknesses from the shapeshifter while I was in that chair. The pain stopped my mouth from trembling, from any sound being emitted – the smooth, salty, metallic taste of blood mixing with my saliva and stabilising me, centring me into the physical plane, and shielding me from my thoughts, wishes, delusions. I couldn't help the fear of hurt that reared inside me, though, and the barriers slammed up around my broken shell. "Why? Did he say something to you?"

I tore my gaze away, and down to the pillow being kneaded anxiously between my palms, trying not to look how I felt. Thready, breaking up into little pieces like the clumps of softness inside the cover of the pillow I was holding – it was the very embodiment of how what I was experiencing in this suspended time. Denials came swift and fast though – maybe the thing had just been extraordinarily intuitive. Maybe it had read John's journal and gleaned information from there. Maybe it had just rationalised that that was how Dean would have felt in situations with his brother and an attractive girl. _Andrea and Lucas Barr. The library. How could it have known details of Dean's life, like that, unless part of it had been connecting to the real Dean? And if it had known things like that, it was a natural assumption that it would know how Dean felt about – about me._ "Yeah," I said, consciously relaxing my grip, on the pillow, but still unable to let go. "Why would he – why would it say that?"

"I don't know. But it did seem like he was downloading Dean's thoughts, and memories – even his emotions, though that could have just been its interpretation of how Dean felt, and not true." He paused, and I could see that that was his own particular hope. He didn't want his brother feeling as the shapeshifter had describe to him – it made even simple facts of life complicated, and he didn't need or want that. He'd always thought that this life was all Dean wanted – to find out, even in a backwards way, that his big brother might be jealous? It was easier to believe otherwise. "Kind of like a Vulcan mind meld, you know?" I nodded, and from outside we heard Dean calling for us. "Come on," Sam said, and smiled at me, the full force of his light blinding me for a moment, and I had to turn away, making a show of letting go of the pillow, in case I cracked in the face of his obvious purity and openness. Placing it on top of the blankets, I left it there along with the farfetched seeds of hope that the shapeshifter had planted.

_Dean he – so he – so he what?_

Demons lie. Demons lie. Demons lie.

I wouldn't allow myself to think anything else; to get hurt again.

000

Driving away from St Louis I turned back in my seat to watch the perfect little houses, with their perfect little lawns, and the people with their perfect little lives pass us by. They'd never know what we'd done for them – most would never even know what was out there, and it was for sure that no one would remember us. It was the same in the majority of towns we helped out, only a select few people – most of them victims who just wanted to continue on with their normal lives – would even know we'd been there. The rest of the population went on, oblivious and untainted.

The innocence of that life beckoned me and I pressed my nose against the back window of the Impala, watching the green grass, manicured trees and happy smiles flit by, reflecting briefly onto the glass. To have that kind of purity again – what would I even do with it? To have that kind of unmarked, unblemished, infinite future stretched out before me – what would I want to be? I knew Sammy wanted to be a lawyer – something he had had in common with thirteen year old Sharika. Dean – well, Dean had never really had a chance to form an idea, and growing up, as far as I'd known before this hunt, all he'd ever wanted to be was a hunter. What dreams had he harboured? As for me…I had no idea.

If I had stayed in a town like this, grown up like the children in St Louis, would I have had a different destiny? Or would this one have caught up with me sooner or later? Was I always made out to be a hunter, or had circumstances and cause and effect created me to be this way? It was the age old debate of nature versus nurture, and I'd probably never find out. I knew what I believed though, and it made the images of happiness that St Louis projected shallow.

Did I ever wish to have a life like this? At first, when I was thirteen and had just left my family, I was too angry at them, at demons and ghosts, and life in general to think about things like this. Sometimes I cried at night, in the dark, when I was sure none of my mentors would be able to hear me, but I convinced myself it was from the ache of training bruises, nothing else. Now I was mature enough to realise it was withdrawal from all the things that had made me who I had been, and the cut off from the future life had so temptingly promised. A few years in I'd been too busy with the jobs and learning, with helping people and feeling the touch of the chosen on my forehead, like a lick of fire, or blood, to think about 'what ifs'. I hadn't even considered another life, because Pastor Jim told me I was made for it, for helping people. That some people just _were_. After that Sharika had come into my life, and the little thoughts of mutiny against Fate – which I still didn't believe in – had started to fade, because I hadn't felt alone anymore. I felt real, and like maybe, just maybe Pastor Jim was right. But then she'd left me and the creepings of doubt had started again.

St Louis dissolved into country side, and I turned back, eyes flickering, like a secret smile, over the familiar contours of the people in the car. I knew in my head that these three hunters made up my future, my family, my life – my destiny. It was just that that place back there, with its sunshine and overcoat of happiness got to me – it was an almost exact replica of my hometown, and thinking about where I came from – _originally_ – always made me feel down. I could practically see my thirteen year old self racing down the main street, laughing, her big brother Scott chasing after her, yelling at her to get her ass home and to stop being a pain in his, the older people they'd grown up with laughing and moving aside to let them pass.

But those two people were dead. They'd never come back.

I shifted down lower in my seat, snapping myself out of memories and daydreams. To me, that life back there was as elusive as warm sunlight in the winter – and although desired by most people, for the few who relished and bloomed in the cold, the sun was unnecessary.

I felt my eyes crinkle at the corners, and yawned. _Now, if everyone just stayed quiet, I might be able to go to sleep for the first time in… _

But of course, everything must revolve in a full circle, and the beginnings and endings of a hunt fell under this rule – the boys' voices woke me up just as I was slipping into oblivion.

"Sorry man," Dean said, almost apologetically from the drivers' seat. I shook my head, face falling into an expression I can only describe by my thought pattern –_ what the hell else did I expect? _

"About what?" Sam asked, when nobody else seemed inclined to answer his brother. I peeped out from under my lashes, to see Sharika leaning against the window, eyes closed, breath fluttering out of parted lips to steam up the glass. She wasn't asleep, but she might as well be, for all the participation she intended to give the conversation. I felt exactly the same. Brother talk. Butt out. Eavesdrop away.

"I really wish things could be different, you know? I wish you could just be… Joe College." Dean, in a rare moment, actually sounded sincere – in his way. I smiled, the skin on my lower lip breaking again, where it had scabbed over lightly, yet again. _Damn_.

"Nah, it's okay. You know, the truth is even at Stanford, deep down I never really fit in." Sam sounded only the slightest bit melancholy, and I closed my eyes, thinking that at least this job had been good for one thing, besides killing one more evil son of a bitch. Sam was realising things about himself, and self-discovery should never be discredited. But then, maybe he was just saying it to appease his brother a little, comfort him. The thoughts from back in the motel threatened to swamp my mind, but I smothered them by centring my thoughts around Sam, and the idea that he might be growing up a little.

"Well, that's 'cause you're a freak." Obviously, Dean didn't share my philosophy, or my thoughts. If he wasn't driving, I'd have hit him in the back of his thick head.

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said, chuffing out the words on a small laugh.

"Well, I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you, all the way."

"I know you are." Reaching up, I tugged a curl at the base of Sam's neck, and gave him an innocent look when he turned and raised an eyebrow at me.

'What?' I mouthed, then my smile appeared again, and I swiped my lower chin with my sleeve, mopping up the blood and licking away what was left. My lips were dry and cracking.

"You know, I gotta say… I'm sorry I'm gonna miss it," Dean said, and I could see his half serious face in the reflection from the windshield.

"Miss what?" I asked, rising to the bait, just as he knew someone would have.

"How many chances am I gonna have to see my own funeral?"

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AN: I am so heart-achingly awed. Have I mentioned recently how freaking awesome you guys are, and how much I love you and your reviews?! I have 103 :crazy insane SQUEE: And you guys mentioned my chapter titles! That's so WOW! I always spend forever searching for the right ones, and to know you guys actually READ them – I thought they were just _there_ and no one actually paid attention – well, it gets me all teary and choked up.

Thankfully, this is the last bit of Skin. You guys must have been getting tired of it all lol, but it's not my fault it was such a great episode, with so much angst to exploit! The next chapter is like, an almost sweet one. I don't know – funny and normal life excerpts, and meshes a little with the Hook man episode. It'll be good after all the scary, and knives and blood, right? If you feel like you need a bit more of that, more funny, you might like to check out _Pucker Up_ and _Just Your Type_, my two newest one-shots from the Believing Improbable Things universe.

_Promo: _

_No one seems to care that you've just been through an ordeal. Dean, Sam, Sharika, the IMPALA, for chrissakes. So, what are you going to do about it? Fall asleep on top of someone, rate hot random asses, avoid the 'John' topic, and flirt shamelessly with fraternity boys of course! Join us next Sunday for suspiciously conscientious coffee buyers, an asshole of a John Doe who isn't reckless enough to violate traffic laws and doesn't want to be found, cardboard cut out men, and a new hunt. All in So Dig A Little More Deeply Into My Life – chapter 25 of Believing Improbable Things. _


	25. So Dig A Little More Deeply Into My Life

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

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25. So Dig A Little More Deeply Into My Life

_Never neglect the little things._

_-- Og Mandino_

Considering everything, you're not sure how you got by.

No one seemed to care that you'd just been through an ordeal, you had a cold, and every time you moved any part of your body more than an inch, at least one cut opened and leaked ruby onto your clothes. The boys didn't care, bantering away in the front of the car, keeping you away from sleep's elusive grasp, Sharika didn't care, falling asleep despite the noise and slumping onto your lap when the car hit a pothole in the road – a sign that even _the_ _Impala_ didn't care about your wellbeing; it seemed to hit every single one out there on the road between your last hunt and the motel you stopped at the next night.

So that made the total number of hours you hadn't slept in…too fucking many. Dean drove the car into the area in front of the motel's reception and parked, climbing out to go and bag a couple of rooms. Unsticking gummy, bloodshot eyes you shook Sharika awake, a little more violently than you maybe could have, but you're sure no one could blame you, under the circumstances. She sat up, yawning, stretching, _where-are-we_-ing, and you listened to the click of vertebrae rearranging, envious as hell.

Sam, sitting in the front and stretching into himself too, pushing taut arms out in front of him until they almost touched the windshield, head thrown back and eyes closed, said in a relaxed, gravely voice, "Just off route thirty-five. We're crashing here tonight, going to look for a new hunt in the morning."

_A new hunt already?_ you thought to yourself, body protesting at the very idea. You felt like you had to sleep for about four days at least, and that you _deserved_ it. How would they like getting tied down, and –?

Instead of voicing these complaints you just grunted something noncommittal at Sam and climbed out of the car, shifting your shoulders a little, as an alternative to indulging in the back-creaking that you wished you could, and that you'd just had to listen to from The S's. _Stupid, inconsiderate Research Team…_ Dean left the building, and seeing you held up a pair of keys, jingling them in his large hand. You managed a smile in response to his own.

"Rooms three and eight," he said, pulling the bags out of the trunk, shifting his onto his shoulder, dropping Sam and Sharika's onto the road, and reaching in for yours. You held out your hands, ready for the ceremonial dumping of your luggage into your arms, something that was practically a ritual between the two of you now, but without even glancing at you he thrust out the hand holding the room keys. "Go open up for us."

You frowned at him for a moment – he always made you 'take your own damn bag, Lauren' – then you shrugged and lifted the keys from his fingers, careful not to touch his skin, with almost superstitious caution. You'd been like that all day, scared of touching him, in case you did something stupid like wince with deep rooted, fucked up fear, or launched yourself on top of him with an overeager lust to burn away all the bad thoughts and memories. It hadn't been Dean, but it had _looked_ like him, and your mind was still having trouble dissecting the rational from the irrational. You hoped he hadn't noticed, but it was unlikely. _He loves you, you know. I mean, I love you. _

"What room do you want?" you asked, pushing thoughts aside, then judged how far each room was from where the Impala was parked. Eight was further away, so – "Three?"

He nodded curtly, pulling the strap of your duffle onto his other shoulder, and balancing both of the bags with practiced ease. The other two stooped and picked up their own bags, while you lead the way to number three, unlocking and opening the door for Sam and Dean to dump their bags on their respective beds, before moving onto number eight so Sharika could unload hers, and Dean dropped yours just inside the doorway. Since it was relatively early, you and Sharika trooped back with Dean to his room.

"Going out, Sammy?" you asked, struggling for casual, and not bone-deep-weary, by leaning on the door, and folding your arms over your chest. The beds – sunken and covered with moth-eaten, suspiciously stained blankets – looked like heaven, and you eyed them as such, before tearing your gaze away to look back up at Sam. He was shrugging into his jacket, and Dean was handing him the keys.

"Yeah, Sharika and I thought we'd hit the local bar, see if there's anything suspicious going down around here."

When had they had the time to discuss that? Had you fallen asleep, even for a short period? You didn't feel like you had, but maybe you'd blacked out from sheer exhaustion, long enough for them to all make plans. Maybe they'd discussed it in that gas station you'd stopped at. You felt a surge of relief in any case, which you quickly repressed – this meant you could put off telling Sharika about the John thing for tonight, and tackle it in the morning after you'd slept and your mind was sharper. It was no good going into such a deep thing when your brains were fried from exhaustion. Shrugging this out-of-the-way, you addressed the more pressing issue – "I thought we were looking for a new hunt tomorrow. I'm sure we're all tired and could use a little break, like, a night's worth at least –"

"No, I'm fine," Sam said, big blue green eyes nonplussed, and with a gesture you were sure was unconscious, touched his neck, where light bruises shaped like finger tips had formed. Maybe he was just acting puzzled. Sometimes you couldn't even tell. Sam had a fucked up sense of humour, on occasion. You were sure he knew exactly what you meant; he just wanted you to admit it. _Stupid, stubborn asshole –_ "Sharika?"

"I think she means _she _could use a night off," Sharika said, and smiled at you, taking pity on your pride, and you stared back, projecting innocence to the room, clasping your hands in front of you. You could play games too.

"I never said _that_," you clarified, all fluttering eyelashes and wide eyes. The illusion was ruined when you coughed, shoulders shaking with the force of it, the sound torn from your throat dry, hacking and painful. You swallowed, eyes closed away from their worried eyes before speaking again. "But now that you mention it…" You tried for a smile, one more in a line of fakes.

"We already thought of that," Dean said, sitting onto his bed, and Sam passed his laptop to him, before going to stand next to Sharika, and smiling at me. "We're staying here – they're going out." Simple, clean cut. You liked it. Not that you'd voice the appreciation that,_ hey! Maybe they did care_. It wasn't like you to admit to… well, anything.

"Whatever," you acquiesced. You were also too _tired_ to argue that you resented having plans made without your consent, that you could look after yourself, and that they needn't make any special provision for you. Besides, there was no point. It'd be three and a half against a half, and even the half wanted itself to lose. You pushed yourself off the door, and Sam and Sharika left with one last wave, as well as Sharika's instructions to you about gargling with warm salty water, drinking lots of fluids, and getting a good night's rest.

All of which you ignored with stubborn, immature obstinacy.

"So, you got anything?" you asked Dean, pulling a chair up beside where he was sitting on the bed, and looking over his shoulder, careful to keep a distance of at least half a metre between his body and yours. His shoulders were tensed, and you felt a sudden over powering urge to massage it all away, or at least lean against him and soak up all that tension into you until it disappeared, and you were just touching him. You even swayed a little closer, before jerking back a couple of inches, covering up this act with a cough.

"No."

"Huh. I see. Well, how can I help?"

"You can't."

"But I want to."

"There's only one laptop."

"Then I guess we'll have to share."

"_Lauren_…"

"Yes, Dean?" you asked, staying unfailingly, falsely cheerful throughout the whole monotonous conversation, refusing to let his walls put you off. You had to do _something_, and you couldn't let him think you couldn't even do your job. After all, last night you'd been fine, right? You hadn't broken down, or collapsed…

"Never mind."

He wouldn't let you touch the keyboard, or the mouse. He ignored you when you offered suggestions. In the end you gave up, simply sitting next to him in fuming silence that kept slipping into companionable when you weren't watching. Sleep crept over you in increasingly strong, lulling waves, until you blinked, and suddenly you were slumped against his shoulder and half his back, body slack and loose, eyes fluttering shut. His warmth spread all along your front where you were touching him, smoothing into you like a caress as his deep breaths matched the rhythm of yours and you felt yourself connect on a soul deep level with his physical presence. _Dean…Dean. _You let out a single, deep breath – more of a relinquishing sigh, if you were being truthful – and then consciousness buckled and deserted you, the warmth stretched over your eyes, taking you away to where it was quiet, and peaceful at last.

The next morning you woke up in Sam's bed, head on the pillows, blankets tucked up around your shoulders. Dean was sleeping next to you in his bed, his whole body turned your way. You couldn't stop the thought running through your head, pervading your whole body with comfort – that he was protecting you, watching over you even while you slept.

000

Deciding hot beverages were the order of the morning, everyone piled into the Impala, and Dean drove to a little café Sam pointed out. It was the only thing he and Sharika had uncovered the night before; there hadn't been anything all that suspicious in town. You couldn't help feeling happy at that – it meant putting off work just a tad longer. Even though you felt refreshed from your night's sleep, you weren't up to full capacity, and you didn't want to endanger anyone by not being at the top of your game.

As a vague extension of this, you were also kind of chirpy that Sam had hit a whole new wave of fervour on the topic of getting in contact with his father, so he was using a payphone as the rest of you drank your coffee, and in Sharika's case, tea. _Maybe if he found something…_ but that was beyond unlikely, so you dismissed the thoughts and glanced around the small, circular table. Dean was clicking away at Sam's laptop, his journal open on top of it, writing down something that you couldn't be bothered deciphering, as you'd have to read his sloped, rounded scrawl upside down. You chatted to Sharika, voting which one of the waiters had the hottest ass as you waited for Sam to come back with news. You were trying to distract yourself from the fact that your naked knees were bare inches away from touching Dean's own denim clad ones, what had happened last night – _nothing, nothing happened_ – and the idea of finding John any time soon. It hadn't really been working, until you'd forced yourself to start eying the attractive selection of guys the café offered.

You were still kind of floundering in the shallows, about the John thing – at least on the level of telling Sharika about it. You were completely over your head when it came to analysing how you felt about John and what he'd done. You also preferred not to think about it, but you knew you had to bring out the fact that you knew about 'the secret' into the open soon. You hadn't yet – you hadn't really had the chance that morning, and you didn't want to bring it up in front of the boys and Sharika, you wanted to do it with her alone first. You had to do that before you could spill what you really wanted to talk to her about – the you and Dean thing. Whatever _that_ was. Because keeping it to yourself was really starting to fray your self control.

You jerked your mind off these dark and dreary and way-too-deep topics to glance around the café again, trying to find the nearest scapegoat to pin the 'hottest-ass-at-the-café' award on.

_None of them were as hot as – yeah; you're not going to think about that. _

You shook your head and shot a glance at Sam. Considering the way he was shifting from foot to foot, banging his fake I.D. card on the top of the payphone softly, with repressed, silent aggression, and the tight, gritted smile he used to force out a perky, grateful tone – it wasn't all that spectacular.

"Definitely his," you muttered to Sharika, pointing discreetly to a guy about three inches taller than you, who was bent over a table, taking an old lady's order. You hadn't even looked at it, but it didn't really matter. No one else had either, so they wouldn't call you out on it. "Nine and a half."

Sharika just gave you a deadpan look, didn't even glance at the guy, as you knew she wouldn't, and took another sip of her tea. You emulated her, licking a stray droplet from the side of your cup as it squirmed its way south, and you heard Sam's voice over the chatter of the café's other patrons. "Alright, thank you for your time." He clicked the phone back onto its hook, dropping the smile and stalking back over to where the three of you were sitting.

Dean, without looking up, saw his brother on his way over, and said, amusement thick in his tone, "Your, uh, half caff, double vanilla latte's getting cold over here Francis."

Francis was the fake police officer's name Sam had used on the payphone. But you all took it as it was meant – Dean joking around and calling his brother a sissy. It was compounded by the coffee mention – Dean was drinking plain black coffee, as per usual.

"Bite me," Sam retorted, articulate as a ten year old, and threw himself into his chair, frustration outlined in every inch of his body. He stuffed his fake I.D. into a pocket in his jacket, as Dean, still studying the screen of the laptop, asked the question on all of your minds.

"So, anything?"

You would have asked too, but both you and Sharika stayed quiet, eyes connecting and parting in silent communication – it was their business, their dad. You kept out of it, didn't offer any sort of advice unless they asked, and struggled to stay neutral on the topic, if it was mentioned, which was hardly ever. It may have been the force underlying their every move, the motivation behind every hunt, as they searched each town we entered for a single clue that could lead to his whereabouts, but it was never glaringly obvious, except at times like this when they tried a new angle. It wasn't that you and Sharika didn't care; it was just that you didn't want to butt in on their territory – it was one hunt you _wouldn't_ intrude on. Call it female sensitivity; call it a deep desire to never see John again, because he was a backstabbing son of a bitch, call it what you wish – it all had the same outcome, the two of you shutting your traps when the topic came up.

"I had them check the FBI, missing person's databank – no John Does fitting Dad's description," Sam said, shaking his head as Dean finally looked up to watch him speak, head cocked slightly to the side, studying his brother, gauging how soon it would be until he broke down the middle and exploded at Dean again. "I even ran his plates for traffic violations," Sam said, ticking the last point off on his finger, and meeting his brother's eyes, jaw clenching slightly.

You flicked your gaze at Sharika, who frowned, and stuck her face in her cup to stop herself from speaking. Sitting next to Sam, you could feel his need to find John steaming off him, like a tangible orange heat against the left side of your body. You studied the coffee in your own cup, biting your tongue softly to keep out, and not look up, meet his eyes, and offer reassurances. The caffeine, and the sleep you'd gotten last night, had combined to make you feel almost cheerful, until now. Thinking about this, you felt one side of your mouth drooping in a telltale sign of unhappiness, and tucked some hair behind your ear, trying to disguise it.

_Stay out, be quiet, not a word. _

"Sam, I'm telling you, I don't think Dad wants to be found," Dean said, deep voice almost accepting, as he twirled his pen in big, restless fingers. He was anything but, however, as you knew quite well. He wanted to find his father just as much as Sam did – if not more. You felt the urge to lean over and put a hand on his, tell him it'd be okay, his dad was okay, not to worry, he'd find his father. But you didn't. _Stay out, be quiet, not a word._ It might be a lie – and besides, you knew how John could be, and the boys probably wouldn't see him at all, no matter what they did, until he decided it was time. _If_ he decided it was time. The pain he put them through on a daily basis, the constant worry running through their minds about his wellbeing…you could have punched him square in the face for that alone. _Selfish bastard… _Coming out of your thoughts you saw Sam look away from his brother, face borderline angry and unhappy. He wouldn't have much patience for the rest of the day, now; you could see it in the tiny lines drawn between his furrowed brows, in the way his hands clenched on the bottom of his jacket under the table, so no one would see the white knuckles. "Check this out," Dean said, bobbing his head at the laptop and spinning it around to face Sam while pulling his journal off of it, closing it and putting it away. He continued on with what ever it was he was intent on talking about, as you ducked your head close to Sam to see the screen, and Sharika shifted her chair closer so she could do the same. "It's a news item out of Plains Courier, Ankeny, Iowa. It's only about a hundred miles from here."

On the screen was the website of the newspaper, featuring a picture of a guy who looked like the kind that knew he was well-liked by everyone, especially women, and used it to his advantage. You know the type, clean facial structure with the wide chin and arched brows, cardboard cut-out superman body and cheesy smile. As well as the picture, there was the heading 'Mysterious Death of Fraternity Brother'. So he was only young, you thought, shaking your head slightly with tired regret, and moving ahead to skim the article.

Voice tired and without emotion, Sam read out the piece. "The mutilated body was found near the victim's car, parked on nine-mile road. Authorities are unable to provide a realistic description of the killer." There was almost a question mark at the end, and I glanced up at Dean, wondering why he wanted us to read this, as no doubt, Sam and Sharika – who couldn't see the screen due to her position, and the sun's glare – did.

"Keep reading," Dean said, taking a sip out of his glass. In a moment of clarity you saw a droplet of coffee on his pink, ripe bottom lip, and a surge of lust almost overrode common sense, counselling you to just lean over and lick it off. Your eyes skittered away before anyone could notice the flames behind your eyes. _Damn his mouth. How were you supposed to resist something that fucking perfect?_

"The sole eye witness, whose name has been withheld, is described as 'distraught' by police. She is quoted as saying the attacker was 'invisible'." Sam, you noticed now, hadn't moved from the position he'd sprawled into when he'd come back from the payphone – his whole body illustrated his disinterest, as he hadn't moved forwards to read the article, he hadn't even touched the laptop to adjust it so it was at a better position, keeping his hands on his lap. Shoulders hunched with his sulk, jaw jutting out almost imperceptibly with his stubbornness, you knew he didn't think that the hunt was anything, just like Sharika, who was shaking her head slightly, and fiddling with a napkin. Only Dean seemed to think it was worth anything, as even you weren't sure that the account of a witness, who'd found the body and had obviously suffered emotional and mental trauma as a result, was worth squat.

"Could be something interesting," Dean said, slanting his body until it was pointed at Sam's, and your eyes flicked over him by their own volition, travelling over the sleek lines with studied furtiveness. He was definitely more interesting than some implausible story about invisible murderers…well, kind of. Your libido was obviously coming back full force, along with your energy. _Damn_. You took a sip of coffee to distract yourself from the little argument you knew Dean would inevitably win, and started thinking about what might have gone down in Ankeny. Spirit, probably, if it wasn't what you'd originally thought. _A.k.a., bullshit._

"Or it could be nothing at all," Sam replied, gesturing at the screen slightly. "One freaked out witness who doesn't see anything doesn't mean it's the invisible man."

"But what if it is?" Dean asked, unruffled. You made to butt in and back him up, or maybe shoot him down – _both were equally fun _– but then he offered the _coup de grace _that sent your eyes scrambling for your coffee again. It was _empty. Damnit. Stay out, be quiet, NOT A FUCKING WORD._ "Dad would check it out," he said, and then, without even looking away from Sam, called the waiter who you'd been fake perving on over, and ordered another coffee, just like the two of you always had. You glanced around the pole of the umbrella in the middle of the table.

He still had half a glass left.

Breathing in and out through your mouth, softly and evenly, you reflected – Dean had _never_ done anything like that for you before – anticipating your needs as though they were his own, that is. You refused to think anything of it, accepting the coffee from the waiter, and smiling at him as though you hadn't a care in the world and you really had been checking him out. Sharika and Sam hardly seemed to notice, arguing theories around your body, drinking their drinks, gesturing with enthusiastic hands. Dean just turned the laptop off, and when you unconsciously turned that smile onto him, looked up.

Your eyes clashed, and feeling a slow burn start to rise under your stomach, repeated the protective mantra in your head, tearing your gaze away from his so you could focus on making your breathing level.

Demons lie, demons lie, _demons_ _lie_.

000

Dean drove those a hundred miles to Ankeny, Iowa, and pulled up outside a building at which an excess of young males seemed to be congregating. Sam and Dean hopped out of the Impala, and your eyes flicked over a small group of guys, tinkering around inside the engine of a car out the front, before meeting Sharika's. You both silently debated the merits of staying inside the car, versus leaving.

You were both wearing low cut, tight shirts, and in your case, a very short denim skirt, in Sharika's, shorts. It was washing day, and these were some the last of your clothes, all of which were the ones you hardly ever wore, because of how they fitted, and their lack of lengths. Your jacket did cover most of the cuts on your arms, your shirt hid the rest, and the shapeshifter hadn't started on the bottom half of you before the SWAT team arrived, jeans be praised. Make up obscured many of the cuts and bruises on whatever was left, so you looked passably normal. However, the injuries weren't the problem. The problem was…well, the assets.

You both had – at this point in time – garishly obvious breasts. And long expanses of bare, nicely muscled legs. Both of which always seemed to be a hit with most heterosexual guys over the age of thirteen and a half.

You weren't sure you felt up to getting hit on, because frat boys usually flirted with anything with a vagina, and Sharika was never comfortable with the idea of guys flirting with her, unless she liked them already. So you hesitated long enough in the car to see the boys being stared at – not all that nicely – by the guys out the front. Awkward conversation ensued, from what you could see – all from Dean. No one else spoke.

You could see in their eyes what the boys were thinking – _competition_. Damn testosterone fuelled gender… it's all _I-have-a-bigger-pee-pee_ than you, and posturing and constant opposition… None of the group were all that hot, at least, not as smoking as the Winchester brothers, and no boys like that kind of thing. Plus, guys usually seemed to dislike Dean on gut instinct. Rightfully, it usually turned out. So, sighing in resignation, and shaking your head sadly, you said, "Hair flip?"

"Hair flip, strut?"

"Hair flip, strut, smile." You nodded at each other, curt as soldiers coming to an important military decision, and opened the Impala doors, the familiar squeak ringing in your ears like a snigger. It was a tactic that you'd both used many times before, to break the ice in awkward situations that were dominated by males. A quirk hit the side of your mouth as you remembered the first time you did it, and the results. It had turned out rather better than you'd both expected, or planned for, and you'd had to make a quick getaway after you'd collected your information. When you acted as the both of you were about to, guys seemed to think you were up for anything, which is exactly what you were trying to make them think. Still… it was a little disconcerting the first time when five guys in a row had seen fit to slap your ass.

As though in slow motion, you both exited, stood, and Sharika executed the perfect, 'look-at-me' straight hair flip, that showed of her smooth stretch of neck and shining hair, while you did your own, more discreet, curly hair version, flipping one side and shaking the masses back until they tangled in sweet disarray down your shoulders and back. You slammed the doors shut, and began to stalk towards the group of boys and the Winchesters, all who had turned to look. Hips swaying from side to side, just obviously enough to emphasise your femininity, but not enough to make you look any more stupid than you felt, you smiled at each other and then at the guys as you reached them.

Studiously, you didn't look at Dean or Sam, if you did, you knew you'd crack up. But you felt their eyes on you all the same, Sam's incredulous, and starting to become amused, Dean's heated, and leaving trails against your flesh as only his could. You ignored all this, resolute, and tried to focus.

Sharika was not the baby-talking type, so you took over, clasping hands in front of your body in such a way as to push up your breasts, you said, cocking your head to the side, "Hi, guys – what's up?" _Guileless. Guileless, innocent, cutesy. _

_Ugh. _

"Hi," the chorus of young males answered back and swallowed collectively, eyeing your chest.

"Who's car?" you asked, feigning breathless enthusiasm, smiling, and twirling a strand of your hair. You bit your lip for good measure, avoiding the cut, and added, affecting shyness, "Because it's _really_ nice." _Not_. _Piece of flashy rundown junk. _

"Yeah, its mine," the one in a red jacket said quickly. He was holding a half eaten banana, you noticed, ideas of how you could possibly use the fruit to further distract them running through your head before you rejected them, feeling vague disgust. No _way_ were you going any additional lengths with this than you had to. He glanced at his friends, then stuttered, "Do you – do you want to take a look?"

"Oh, _may_ I?" you squealed, clapping your hands and bouncing forwards. Out of the corner of your eye you saw the Winchesters moving towards the building, stop and talk to another guy for a second, who seemed far more accommodating, then enter it. Sharika had a couple of guys around her now too, hovering, as she implemented a foot popping, breast popping, cutesy act of her own. She tilted her head to the side, stuck her chest out and looked up from under her lashes at them – actually coming across as believable. Smile growing wider, you bent over the side of the car, sticking your ass out just that little bit more than was necessary, glad you were actually wearing _viewable_ underwear, and said, "What are you guys doing in here?"

"We're just fixing the oil levels, and the horn's been a bit off, so we're tuning it," said the guy on the opposite side of the car, unabashedly staring straight down your top. You tried to keep from laughing, squeezing your cleavage up even higher by leaning further into the engine and cocking your head to the side, to study the insides with a vapid expression of interested-clueless-and-eager.

"I always _loved_ guys who could work with their hands," you purred, tucking hair behind your ear so you could keep the image that you were trying to project, and so that you wouldn't start demanding some tools so you could fix the car yourself. It was an absolute mess, and you hated to see any poor car in that condition.

_The incompetent buffoons…_

About ten minutes later – _ten horribly flirtatious, perverted and overtly sexual innuendo laden minutes_ _later –_ the boys were back, and tugging you and Sharika away, looking just a little pissy, and eyeing the other guys like dirt – or maybe just frat brothers... You went gladly.

"You're _so_ good with that spanner," Sharika cooed breathlessly, relaying your own words back to you as you all got into the Impala, and you giggled, unable to help letting out the girlish sound, or the amusement that had been building since the hair flip.

"Maybe you could tune _my_ engine some time."

"Let's take a look under the hood, shall we?"

"If only this was my car. I'd wax it and ride it all over town."

"I still can't believe you said that," Sharika crowed, and you started laughing even harder, holding onto your sides.

"How far do you think we set feminism back by? Ten, ten hundred years?"

"We?! What did _I_ do? Lauren, it was all you, I was just standing in the background trying not to laugh as all the guys stared down your top."

"And having them swarm you like –"

"What are you guys talking about?" Dean interrupted finally from the front, turning to look at you and sticking his keys in the ignition, eyebrows raised in classic 'tell-me-right-now, I'm-so-not-amused'.

You smirked, feeling just that other side of smug. "Those were all lines I spouted to those poor guys back there. Car innuendo, it's a work of art."

"You didn't," Sam denied, obviously delighted, a rare grin appearing on his face as Dean pulled the Impala out of park and drove away from the curb. You and Sharika turned and waved at the boys you'd left behind with an excess of enthusiasm, before spinning back to the front and grinning at Sam.

"Oh, I did."

"She did," Sharika confirmed, and you both laughed again. You felt the rightness of that pristine moment echo into your bones, and met her brown eyes with all the things you couldn't say you felt. She didn't have to understand, you just had to express – it was enough.

"Where are we going now?" you asked, shaking off the gooey feeling and leaning your elbows onto the divide between the seats, tilting your head to look Dean.

He shot you a smile, a momentary glimpse of his thoughts – and then said, "Church."

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AN: Freaking hell, you people are trying to slay me with pleasure, aren't you?! (hugs everyone insanely) I've been receiving so many reviews I don't know what to do with them! They come out of my ears! I find them in my socks drawer! And I LOVE IT! It's like… wow. (incoherent)

Anyways, the next chapter is a little confusing at the start, then goes kind of angsty, then goes kind of WTF and then it ends. (blinks) Yes, I think that's probably the best way to describe it. Oh, and after that, in the next couple of chapters, we have a DeanLauren angst slice of pie, and then we get into a huge SharikaLauren thing. So…brace yourselves.

_Promo:_

_Lauren initiates two talks between two very hard-headed hunters about their love lives. Confessions ensue – kind of. And the library-thing is finally mentioned, somewhat out loud, to someone who will not let it go. Coincidences, kisses with '__that little tramp of a reverend's daughter'__, the Ferret Lady and fluffy eternal moments result, all in chapter 26 of Believing Improbable Things – Make Sure We Keep Talking. _


	26. Make Sure We Keep Talking

26. Make Sure We Keep Talking

_There is nothing so annoying as to have two people talking when you're busy interrupting._

_-- Mark Twain_

She sits, enclosed by thought and reflection of the days past, on the motel bed – the tall boy sits on the floor next to her, also occupied inside his own psyche. Over the time they have been in Ankeny, Iowa, her body has become further healed – her mind, torn. Hectic the life of a hunter may already be, each participant having to engage their minds in thoughts of supernatural danger, and each confusing twist a day in their life heralded; as well as their having to deal with the everyday nuisances of life, relationships, and their loose adherence to social code. But now, as an extra pleasure, this particular mission has her querulous brain thinking, dispassionately, of the possible immorality of her acts, and consequences, when she has far more vital matters she should be taking care of.

She thinks to herself, even her silent mentality becoming lightly confused, about issues raised in days past. Faith and morality contain within their virtuous depths many adjustments according to circumstance and particulars, making the partaking in either a thankless, and often perplexing task. _She did this, for this reason; does that neutralise the wrongness of such an act in that fallacy, 'god's eyes'?_

Some people actually believed in such things – in divine intervention and judgements. Previously she'd prided herself on being one who did not; but now, well, it can only be summed up in the words of that perfect little choir girl, whose suppressed desires were being fed upon by a far too enthusiastic dead preacher – "I was brought up to believe that if you do something wrong, you will be punished."

It was always hard to deal with people who had that kind of inner belief system – that reliance in invisible beings and entities, the so called higher powers. They made her question her own ideas on life, and whether or not they could be wrong. After all, throughout her time she'd seen all the bad things; somewhere out there, it must mean there are also good things, by the rules of existence and balance. At least, that's how Lori, the preacher's daughter made her think. She was their newest victim, as her befuddled ideas on morality, her father's teachings, and life, were being acted out by Jacob Karns – a Reverend who'd been just a little too feisty about the issue of prostitutes, sins of the flesh and the like; enough to kill thirteen women from the red light district in 1862. Now he was somehow haunting Lori, latching on to her subconsciousness to punish those she believed to be morally corrupt. At first, all four hunters had believed the spirit had attached itself to Reverend Sorensen, Lori's father, as Jacob had killed a boy coming on to his daughter too strongly, and her best friend, who'd been trying to turn her into more of a party girl than she was ready for. Unfortunately, that theory had been shot to hell the night before, when the reverend had been put into hospital by the poltergeist. He wouldn't really turn it on himself now, would he?

It had happened because his perfect little prodigy had found out about his illicit affair with a married patron at his church, and she was upset that all his teachings had misled her. Sam had been there to talk to her, to soothe her, to rid the area of the hook man – as the hunters had taken to calling Jacob Karns, whose murder weapon was his substitute arm; a silver, custom made hook – for a short time. He'd also been there for the confused, vulnerable Miss Lori Sorensen to kiss him.

The blonde woman brings herself out of her thoughts and eyes the tall boy with very slightly murderous hazel green and gold eyes. When she'd seen the two of them at it, she'd felt her stomach jump around as though it was high on crack, simultaneously feeling her heart press up against her throat at the wrongness of it. _What would Sharika think, if she found out? _He'd kissed the preacher's daughter back, after all – if only for a small time. Still, it was enough to make her create a pact with herself, to be in this position with him. That is, alone, with the hazel eyed man and the dark woman out, scoping the Sorensen household. They were going to go there tonight, grab all the silver, and melt it, as the hook was part of Jacob Karns too, and merely salting and burning his bones hadn't been enough to rid the world of him. The hook had been donated to Lori's fathers' church, oh coincidence of coincidences. In any case, the blonde woman was going to talk to Sam about all his repression, and she was going to do it in such a way as to have all her suspicions about his mind and emotions confirmed.

At least, she hopes so. Extracting information from Sam on his wellbeing was like trying to remove teeth without novocaine – painful, bloody and a screaming nightmare.

Injecting a little steel into her spine she sits up straighter, shifting closer to him where he leans against the bed, clearing her throat. "So, Sam…" she says, cursing her lack of a good opening line. Instead of thinking of things that could never be confirmed or discredited to her until she carked it, she should have been thinking about how to commence with the deep and meaningful. "What's up?"

He looks up at her, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his back leaning against her bed. His posture is relaxed, but the large, long-fingered hands fidgeting with the edges of his shirt belies his thoughts – they're messy, and probably guilt laden. _This is going to be so much fun, _her head squeals, and she's sure the sarcasm of it could be heard out loud. Smiling at the tall boy to cover it up, she feels her shoulders' instinctual hunching, and berates herself mentally. Cocking his head at a diagonal, one arched brow raising slightly over the sea green eyes looking her way, Sam says, "Nothing."

Of course he'd have to be _difficult_.

"Right, right," she says, and pauses, mind scrabbling for a way to move into the place she wants to take this conversation, subtly. Typically, her mouth is disconnected with her head, and lets out a nonchalant, "So, is Lori a good kisser?"

The tall boy's face, which had turned away after her first acceptance of his statement, snaps back towards her, ocean eyes widening infinitesimally, before his features shut themselves away in false negligence. "What are you talking about?"

"You and her. Tongue hockey. It was kind of hot if you like the whole, barely legal preacher's daughter kind of thing. Can't say that _I,_ personally, do, but you seemed to be enjoying it for a couple of seconds there. You know, until you pulled away like a startled rabbit."

He turns his face to the side, brown locks concealing his expression, as all she can see is the back of his head from her position. She doesn't wish to intrude on his privacy, but curiosity and surrogate maternal instincts come first, and she moves on the bed, lying down onto her stomach with feet dangling off the edges. Her head is only a few inches away from his, and slightly to the right side, and she lays it atop crossed arms, eyeing the hair that reaches his collar now, in polite disorder. He's not answering her, but she won't prod. It's against her nature to do so, but she waits, wondering if he'll say anything at all, staring at the back of his head, and the sliver of face she can see – his nose, outline of his mouth, eyelashes – hazel green and gold eyes speculating about what might be going on in there. "How do you know about that?" he finally asks, turning his head again to meet her eyes. "I thought I was alone with her."

"I stalk you," she says, trying to insert some humour into the situation. In actual fact, she'd been performing a defensive circuit around his position. She was his back up, in case the spirit came back again. He hadn't known she was there, because she hadn't wished to cramp his style – _she should have stuck to him like glue_, she thinks in retrospect. _Then this whole thing wouldn't have been necessary_. "Besides, you're kind of hard to hide, all six foot plus of you."

He doesn't buy it, adding after a slight pause, "_Right."_ The word is coloured with disbelief and slightly drawn out, sarcasm dripping like so much dark honey. She waits for him to add something else, but as usual, the Winchester tendency to hold back everything, unless pressed, shines through.

Sighing, she asks, "So Sam, you going to do anything about it, or what?" Personally, she feels if he tries anything with that little tramp of a reverend's daughter she'll remove both of _his_ heads, and kill _her_ off. It would be completely wrong, both for him and the dark woman – he's still in mourning, and he likes Sharika. Sharika was also in that state of trying to deny her feelings about the tall boy to the world, although she personally had accepted them somewhere inside her a while ago. She'd never do anything about it though, not without some kind of indication from the youngest Winchester, who would never give it to her because he was still messed up about Jessica. The blonde woman was angry at Sam, on some level, that he had kissed Lori back. She felt bad for her best friend, who didn't – and would probably never – know, and she felt bad for Sam because although she didn't want him to be lonely, she knew that he and Lori were _not_ right for each other – this conclusion had absolutely nothing to do with personal bias of course. At least, that's what she told herself.

Lori was all right, if you liked the whole, _she's-not-really-into-you, she-just-needs-comfort-and-someone-to-understand-during-this-harsh-time-she's-going-through_ thing. She didn't even know the tall boy, not like she should do before she started to try and monopolise his attention. And Sam – well, his side of it wasn't any big thing. She was nice, and nice looking. End of story. There was just that one, tiny, teeny, weeny little detail… HE LIKED SHARIKA. Dean knew it, she knew it, even Sam knew it – he just didn't address it, and refused to admit it, even to himself. What did he expect, that Jessica would come rising up from the grave to berate him and tell him she never wanted him to be happy or ever have another impure thought? If she had deserved Sam's love, she wouldn't have been like that. The only one who didn't get that Sam reciprocated her feelings was the woman in question; she was, and always had been, completely oblivious to such things. The boys weren't the only ones the blonde woman could cheerfully strangle, at times.

She remembers the first time she noticed the potential running between the two of them – they were just coming out of some place – she forgets where – as even the surroundings paled in comparison to them. She can see it though, the sun shining down on them as though they were bathed in light, and blessed with it. She remembers thinking how _right_ they looked, the woman looking up at the man, smiling and moving her hands a little as she spoke, to orchestrate a point. They were talking, just talking, and Sam was smiling. The extraordinary thing about it was, it was a _genuine_ smile, not one of the ones he usually cracked to get him out of having to answer her or Dean, and it was free and unburdened by all the things that had been weighing him down for the past couple of months. He looked happier than he'd been for the whole time she'd been travelling with the Winchesters, and looked relaxed – content. Previously she'd just thought that Sam had the hots for her best friend, but then she made him laugh. She can see in clear detail the way the sun glinted off his teeth, can hear with a perfect slice of memory the deep, beautiful sound of his laughter filling the air. It was then that she'd formed the consensus that she was going to get the two of them together – one way or another. And now this little itsy bitsy choir girl comes along, acting all butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-ass – _who does she think she is? Can she make Sam look like that? No. _

"No, I'm not," he says, and she feels relief sweep through her, which she carefully conceals, flicking blonde curls into her eyes, and schooling her face into impassivity. He continues, slightly indignant and defensive, which she had known he would be, eventually, to try and guide her off his tender feelings – not quite so subtly. "Why are you so interested in my love life all of a sudden?"

"Because I hate seeing you all mopey," she mutters, letting her worry shine through for a second, stroking a hand through his thick hair, fingers gliding against his scalp in a move of sheer comfort and reassurance. It's a sign of how close they'd grown in the months past that he doesn't shy away, but allows her to do so, and she elaborates. "It makes me sad. You're like a brother to me, and I care, you know?"

"Okay," he says back, voice just slightly gruff and overly long-suffering, projecting boredom as a result of her ministrations, and 'unfounded' anxieties. She has to smile. "I'm not, alright?"

"Sam, please stop denying it." She sighs, and moves a little closer, cocking her head to the side and propping it up with a hand, trying to pressure him with her closeness, to project understanding and protectiveness, although she really has no clue how he must be feeling, nor has she any idea how to help him. "This is about Jessica, isn't it?" She pauses, biting her lip, hesitant of how much force she can apply, of how far to go. "I don't want to pry or anything, and I know it's really too soon and I just... I just don't want you to feel..." She breaks off again, unsure how to articulate what she feels, what she wants him to tell her, to say. "I'm here for you, if you ever want to talk, okay?"

It's the best she can do, she thinks, and waits to see what he'll say.

His body, which has alternately stiffened and softened over this talk, is now stuck somewhere in the middle, a kind of physical limbo. "I'm not ready yet," he says, and although it's nowhere in his voice, in his body, in the words – she knows it's a plea for her to let that line of questioning go, the stuff about Jess. He's not ready. She's not sure he ever will be. But they both know she'll be here if he needs – if he _decides –_ to talk, and her limbs, uptight with tension for the whole duration of this uncomfortable talk relax slightly.

"Besides, I thought you had a thing for – well, for Sharika," she says, grinning, tone light and teasing, as it normally is. She's shifting the conversation away from its darker aspects again – and into curiosity and amused suspicion burdened territory. She pokes his shoulder playfully, and his eyes widen with surprise that is unfeigned. She guesses, rightly, that he thought he hadn't been obvious. But both she and his brother knew, knowing him just that little bit too well.

"What makes you say that?" he asks, trying to inject innocence into his tone, and due to his big, guileless eyes, almost succeeds.

"Just the way you act sometimes, you know. Then there's the way you look at her – oh, and the extended showers. That kind of thing." Her mouth is twitching with laughter again, as a light flush stains his high cheekbones. "Don't even pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, Sam. You're a red-blooded male, despite your feelings you still have about – about the past." She clears her throat, and glances away for a second, regaining composure and deliberately not saying Jessica's name, or the 'l' word. For a second the blonde woman wonders if her hovering spectre will always stand in the way of Sam establishing healthy relationships with other women – namely her friend – but she doggedly moves on. "I'm not stupid; I know what you're doing in there."

The tall boy looks away from her, refusing to say anything. Her eyes soften as they glide over his young profile, and she shuffles forwards, using her elbows and stomach, until she can lay her arms around his shoulders. She lies her cheek atop his head, giving him as much comfort as she physically can from this position, and whispers, "I worry about you," before she realises that maybe it's not the best idea.

"She's just my friend, that's all."

She rolls her eyes at the denial, knowing he can't see. Reluctant to talk the topic over anymore, and close him off from her even further she sighs, heavy and dramatic, so he's sure to hear it, and says, "Yeah, sure. So you like her, right?" The last is a rhetorical question neither expects the tall boy to answer. She grins, uncertain whether to feel happy or not, as it feels as though they've gotten somewhere and nowhere, all at once. He hasn't admitted anything, but it kind of feels like he has – careful non-answering is a very Sam thing, and usually confirms whatever she's said. Besides, he doesn't have to admit it. She_ knows. _She just_ knows _he likes the dark woman.She hugs him tighter for a second, then flicks his earlobe. "You are such a pain in my ass, Sam. Just wanted you to know that."

"Yeah, thanks," he laughs. And after a second longer, she lets go.

000

There are times in a woman's life when her destiny takes on the form of a pendulum, swinging precariously between two directions; times when the normal constraints and social mores by which one lives are rendered as meaningless as melting snow. This was such a time for our protagonist.

They're at some random pit stop on their way away from Ankeny, Iowa, having finished with their last hunt. The damsel had been saved, the bad guy killed, the civilians were oblivious, and the saviours had been fingered by the authorities as the instigators of the trouble. All in a day's work, and the directions she swung between had nothing to do with priests, hooks, silver or annoyingly-overly-confused and not-nearly-traumatised-enough preachers' daughters.

The decision had to be made now, though.

She could squeeze in a fast, not too personal chat with her friend now, and get a couple of things off her chest and the dark woman's, or she could try to schedule one later, and get _everything_ off them both before they imploded. Of course, the former would be a lot easier, and less deep – plus if one of the boys came back from their sojourns to the toilet and the junk food section of the gas station, it could be cut off immediately. The latter required intense dialogue, and possibly a lot of anger on the dark woman's part, and would continue even if the boys came back, with a marching band proclaiming their reappearance. It'd be better for everyone if the blonde woman waited until later, until they had all the time in the world to talk.

There really was no question about the matter, after careful consideration.

"You like Sam, huh?" her mouth opens and spills the words into the comfortable atmosphere of the car, automatically electrifying it. Why couldn't she have said something that wasn't so obvious? She could have eased into the topic, instead of sending it out there to explode in the air like a firework, big, colourful, too bright and illuminating. She could have said something like,_ 'so…how you doing?'_ giving the dark woman the opportunity to bring the topic up herself. Or she could have said, _'so, who do you think is hotter, Sam or Dean?'_ and then moved on from there. She even could have –

"No," the dark woman interrupts her thoughts, with a denial that's just a _little_ too hurried and vehement to be believable. The blonde woman smirks, crossing her legs up on the back seat of the Impala, and pulling her right knee up to sling her left arm around it, using her right arm to prop her chin on her hand, elbow using the knee in turn. She studies the dark woman with the affectionate amusement of a person who knows their friend is lying, but won't say anything, because they both know the liar will crack. Sharika's looking at the floor, brown eyes studiously avoiding the hazel green and golden gaze trained on her profile. Her hands, the colour of a strong mocha latte touched with cinnamon, pull against the hem of her green t-shirt, twisting the soft material with restless, unmistakably confessional fingers, to those who know the signs. "You can tell I'm lying, can't you?" she finally asks on a sigh, eyes glancing up to meet the humoured ones of the observer of her inner misery and frustration.

"Besides the whole, _duh_ factor, it's beyond kind of obvious. You can't lie to save your life. Well," she rethinks her statement, thinking of the whopping ones the dark woman's pulled out in the job, including the one about her being a messenger from god to coax one particularly religious and devout victim into going with her to save his life, the one about her being the prostitute a murderer had hired so she could get close enough to cuff him and put him in jail, which was the justice a particular ghost had required, and, her personal favourite, the one we're she'd had to act as a clown to get in to a circus to save her. Until you'd seen the dark woman smashing cream pies into her own face, you hadn't seen funny. "You can't lie to _me_, anyway. I know you too goddamn well."

The dark woman rolls her shoulders in the manner of a duck sliding water off its back, dismissing these statements, and asks the question forefront in her mind. "How long have you known?"

"Oh, you know, since forever and ever. And ever, and ever, and, well, ever."

"Right." Then a thought strikes the woman, and she jerks as though it's a lightning bolt and not a simple jump in her mental patterns. "Does _Sam_ know? OH MY GOD, HE CAN'T KNOW – WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!" The dark woman starts freaking out, gabbling out reasons why the tall boy can't know, complex consequences if he did ever find out, and several mangled expletives – as well as the standard issue, 'oh my god'-ing. "He's going to reject me if I tell him that I like him, and then I'm going to be scarred for life because I was rejected by the man that I love – LIKE, I said LIKE! _LIKE_! Oh my god! I can't love him, can I?!? It's only been four months!!" Then Sharika turned her frantic brown eyes onto the other woman, almost as if searching for the answer within her golden green depths.

_She… loves him._ Speechless, the blonde woman blinked at the dark one, trying to process this information. Before she was able, Sharika started up again, brown eyes wide and staring unseeingly at the dirty floor of the Impala, white knuckled hands clutching the seat as though it were a life preserver. "OH _GOD_! I can see it now! He'll reject me, and I'll turn into this quiet, lifeless, depressed little thing, devoid of any emotions so as not to get myself hurt again, then Sam will meet this drop dead gorgeous woman who can provide him with everything he's ever wanted and they'll get married and have babies, like ten mini Sam's and mini Mrs Sam Winchester's pitter-pattering all over their huge house which they can afford on Sam's salary, and his wife's 'cause she'll be brilliant and smart and perfect and have a good job with a huge pay check and Dean will be living next door man-skank-ing his way around like he usually does –" for a second she paused, actually taking a breath – _her first since she'd started ranting _– and turned slightly saner eyes onto the woman next to her, who was holding her own breath so as not to laugh. "Have you noticed he's gone from Mr Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am to Mr I'll-Just-Have-The-Pancakes-Please, like right after you and he went to the library that day?" The blonde woman's lips part in shocked reaction, and her eyes widen involuntarily. _How did she – what did she – how? – _and she tries to insert some kind of denial, a rejection of this fact – because she _has_ noticed this herself – but the dark woman's off raving again, words tumbling and falling over each other in their rush to escape her mouth. "Anyways, you'll be off with your rich, good looking, fun husband in France on your second honeymoon having fun and being in love and perfect, like Sam and his wife, and Dean by then too, and I'll go on hunting alone, getting old, fat and wrinkly and then I'll have to move next to a dirty, alligator-infested swamp or something cause my body won't be able to take the action of hunting anymore and then I'll have to get a dozen ferrets as my children – ferrets 'cause cats, birds and even dogs are too cliché. Then all the kids who live in my town will have to knock on my door as a dare because they're scared of the ferret lady. _'Run, run,'_ the children of my town will cry, _'Run from the ferret lady!'_ And I'll die an unhappy, despondent, miserable, sad, dismal death which people won't even notice until the smell becomes too overbearing and when they find me I'll be half eaten by my ferrets who've turned carnivorous for their own survival and they'll end up throwing me into the swamp for the alligators to feast on while you and Sam and his wife and Dean are happy and laughing and perfect with your grandchildren!"

The blonde woman waits out the storm, studying the nails of her right hand. The index one has broken off again. Chewing at the offending nail thoughtfully, she hears the silence as the dark woman forcibly stops her babbling rendition of portending tragedy. She's glad she has a fingernail between her teeth – it's a useful ploy to keep from laughing out loud at the utter ridiculousness of what her friend was going on about. _Melodramatic, much?_ Of course, the dark woman couldn't help herself. She rarely got like this, because she hardly felt so strong or emphatic about things. However, when she did – watch out! Alligators, ferrets and perfect lives oozing out of everyone's pores, except hers, were the result. "Done?" she asks, when she feels the pause has gone on just that shade too long – she loves torturing her friend, and glances over at her under lowered lashes to view her rigidly controlled profile, with its tense features, stiff shoulders and worrying hands. The bottom of the dark woman's shirt is a rumpled mess. A giggle is building in the back of her throat, although she understands Sharika's discomfort; she knows she'd be an exact replica – if not louder and with more flailing of the arms – if she thought that Dean had even an inkling of what she felt for him. "Okay, look. There's really no need to worry. Sam's kind of too busy caught up in his own problems right now; Jessica, hunting, his dad, liking you back like a fat kid loves cake…" She drifts off after dropping this bomb shell, eyes dreamy as she's actually envisioning the cake, mind latching on to the most important thing here, and then she sniffs dismissively, adding almost as an after thought, "Dean knows though," as though the dark woman should have already known this fact herself.

Her friend smiles feebly, saying, and completely ignoring her words, the ones about Sam reciprocating those tender, mushy, repressive emotions she has. _Is she in denial, or just stupid? _"Am I that obvious?" The blonde woman _just_ restrains herself from nodding fervently, feeling that it wouldn't really be constructive to the conversation, and that she might get shot one of those looks if she does. You know the type, the _'how could you do that?'_, _'gee thanks'_ look. "Well, he doesn't like me back, he's not over Jessica yet, and he likes that girl Lori, if he likes anyone. Didn't you sense their chemistry?"

"They kissed." The words are falling out her mouth before she can think, and her eyes widen with the dark woman's as they register. _Why can't she keep her goddamn mouth shut? How could she say that? Is there a particular part of her missing, the common sense, not-stupid part? Sure as hell feels like it. _"I mean –" she tries to take the statement back, but too late. She ends up just banging her head against her knee, then sighs resignedly against it, the spread of warmth compounding the knowledge that she's just undermined her every argument. She'll never convince the other woman of Sam's feelings now, no matter what she says. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ she thinks, grinding her forehead against her knee, shaking it from side to side slightly and screwing her face up as she waits for the other woman to talk again.

"They kissed…" the dark woman says, and the blonde one doesn't even have to look at her to feel the despondency and slight shock running through her friend. She knows she's just taken away even the faint, _faint_, miniscule hope her friend had, with those two words. She could slap herself. Although the dark woman would never think that she _actually_ had a chance, she hadn't thought she had absolutely _no_ chance, until now. _If that makes sense_, the blonde woman thinks for a second, eyes moving to the side, and eyebrows lowering fractionally as her thoughts wandered away from her. _Oops. Sharika, focus, now._

"Well, technically she kissed him, and he pulled away –" _eventually _"– like she had oral herpes." Exaggerate, exaggerate. Make her feel better. Make her laugh.

Yeah, like _that's_ going to be happening any time soon.

"Oh well – I knew he'd never like me. I'll get over him, eventually." Sharika pauses trying to inject strength and conviction into her voice, no doubt, and the blonde woman quells her urge to smack her on the back of the head, because of her self-deprecating crap. _No one insults my best friend, except me._ "Hopefully." She pauses again, and the blonde woman takes her head off her knee to look at her. Arguments run through her brain, tangling up in her mouth and becoming incoherent. _He left her, didn't he? He didn't stay. He doesn't want her. He came with us – with you. You. He likes you. He wants you. _Before she can articulate – or even decode – these scrambled thoughts, the dark woman talks again. "He's too good for me anyway."

_Sam? SAM? Sam of the shower caterwauling, Sam of the incurable sulks and emo-ing out? Sam with the hero complex, the guilt complex, the youngest child complex, the too many complexes to count complex? No fucking way can she be saying that. _"Don't say that. I hate it. And it's not true." She cuffs Sharika on the shoulder, hand streaking out for the almost, but not quite admonishing slap, before retracting to wrap around her shin again.

"It is true."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"_No_, it isn't."

"_Yes_, it is."

"I'm going to be the mature one for once –" _despite how her instincts are yelling at her to continue this line of 'arguing',_ "– and stop _that_ right here. It's _not_ true, he _does_ like you, and if you say that he doesn't again I'll slap you up for real."

"What makes you say that? Just because you're my best friend."

_There's a besides that? _"The fact that if anything, _you're_ too good for him." _Good, good, that's good – keep on with that line of argument, and she'll never guess you're making it up as you go along! Downplay Sam's obvious wonderfulness, boost the bad sides. Um…um… there are bad sides? _"He's a repressive asshole who can't see past his huge nose." She suppresses the urge to giggle at this almost-but-not-quite untruth. Sam does have a big nose…and yes, he sort of represses things, but then, so did every bloody person in this quartet. Still, maybe the dark woman won't catch on.

And she doesn't – she's still too steeped in her own moping, selfishly one-track thoughts. "You're only saying that because you're my friend."

_Well, yeah… oh, and because the two of them deserved each other. The things she does for them and they don't even listen…_ the blonde woman mutters darkly and mutinously inside her own head, thinking about their utter ungratefulness. What did they think – that she _enjoyed_ this kind of thing? Listening to them being all, _deny, suppress, no, they could never_…whine, whine, sulk.

_Yeah, right. _

"No, I'm not." If she has to repeat herself one more time, she will combust. She can feel it.

"Do you think we'd make a good couple?" the dark woman asks suddenly, and the blonde woman blinks at this sudden, almost topic change. How long has she been wanting to spring that question?

Still feeling uncharitable and grumble-y inside her own head, the blonde woman answers after a false, thoughtful pause, "Hell no. I think you'd make the most cutesy, whiney, vomit-inducing thing I'll ever see. Do I want you two to get together? _Oh-god-yes_," she says, making the last sentence into one word, by saying it super fast.

In actual fact she has this feeling that they would be a happy, regular kind of couple, well in her eyes at least… and outside of the hunting and the Sharika-having-psychic-powers-that-Sam-doesn't-know-about thing of course... The two of them have the same instincts, the same reactions and thoughts in most situations; they have the same morals and wants, and their personalities meshed together like prunes and peanut butter – in other words, it seemed like the two things put together would be weird, and just really freaky, but really worked quite well together, in the eyes of the enlightened few. Her, for example.

Now she has cravings for prunes and peanut butter. What were the chances of the older boy buying them?

_Not so good_.

Sharika laughs. "Thanks."

"Oh, don't thank me – I am compelled to speak the truth," she says, trying to sound pious, and clutching at her chest as though stricken with her own holiness. She drops it after a second, whole demeanour becoming dismissive as she waves her hand, saying, "Whatever." She slumps back against the seat, dropping one leg onto the floor of the Impala again, and tucking the right leg under her. She cuts her eyes to her best friend, narrowing them slightly as she says, "So, what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know." The blonde woman's hands clench, as she restricts herself from the urge to shake the other woman. Sharika doesn't see the white knuckles; she's looking out of the car window at the gas station parking lot, eyes gliding unseeingly over the aesthetics of dirty, garbage-strewn concrete, grimy walls and dusty wind. "What if you're wrong and he doesn't like me? And what makes you think he does, anyway?"

"Oh my god, how did I ever think I'd get this over with in five minutes?" she mutters darkly, and Sharika strings a confused glance her way, which she ignores, stubbornly and silently refusing to answer the unspoken question. "I'm never wrong, _he likes you_, and I figured it out 'cause he's as freaking obvious as you are." Getting exasperated now she shuts her eyes, pursing her mouth. _Damnit. What's the use? Neither of them will do anything under pressure – they're both going to take their own. Sweet. Time. She could cheerfully strangle them both. _"You two seriously need to get over yourselves."

She represses the little voice in the back of her head telling her she's just as bad as Sharika is with the whole 'admitting-to-tender-emotions' thing – a.k.a., DEAN – and that she's being the worst kind of hypocrite, because Sharika can't even her accuse her of being one – she doesn't know.

_Don't start guilt-tripping yourself_, she thinks, frustrated and almost desperate. _You need at least one ally in this. _

"But how? What does he do?"

"You want _details_? Why should I bother, when you're just going to ignore them anyway?" The dark woman shoots her a look, and she caves with a resigned sigh. "Fine. _Fine_. The way he talks to you, the way he talks _about_ you, and the way he acts around you. Plus there's the whole, checking-you-out-every-five-minutes thing he has going on. Seriously, do the Winchester's have an extra tonne of testosterone in them than they rightly should, or is it just me?" She shook her head so she wouldn't start going off onto a completely different track than she should, ranting away about stupid Dean and Sam and – "Anyway, it's –"

Occupied with their own thoughts they didn't notice the boys coming back until they slammed into the car. Both women jumped simultaneously, the blonde woman covering it up by leaning forwards to affect interest in the junk food Dean had purchased and that were in a messy pile on his lap and the seat next to him, the dark one just tucking hair behind her ear and acting unaffected.

"You have two choices of beverage," Dean started in his salesman voice, and began listing all the food in a loud, far too cheerful tone. Sam was putting something in his bag in the front, and was busy with that – so before her mind could stop her, before the scrapings of common sense she'd gleaned from the edges of her character could have a say, before the vestiges of a barrier could enclose her, she leaned into Sharika and said it.

Well, whispered it really, the confidential tone hopefully making the other woman think she was joking.

"Oh, and Dean and I fucked." Then she ducked back before anyone could notice, and put half her body over the dividing seat saying to Dean as though he'd had her whole attention the entire time, "I'll have the Mars Bar."

"WHAT?!" Sharika exclaimed. The boys stared at her, utterly confused as to why she was suddenly so loud and vehement. Dean's hand, which had just handed her the candy, paused, and it was like they were almost holding hands as he stared at Sharika, and she affected the same look back at her friend. The dark woman, realising the blonde one's plan – spring this on her when the boys get back so she can't pursue it, and might, maybe, hopefully forget – said, "LAUREN!" in a loud, exasperated kind of way that she ignored. She covered the only way she could think how.

"What, you wanted the Mars Bar?" she said, raising an eyebrow incredulously. She tugged her hand and the chocolate bar from Dean, then handed it to over Sharika, with a calming, don't-spook-the-mental-patient look spread over her features. "Jeez. No need to be so loud about it. Here."

The boys, still looking confused, and used to the blonde woman's strange diverting tactics, trained questioning eyes on the dark woman, who, after shooting a look in the other's direction said, "She just told me something that I didn't know about something that happened when we first started travelling together; you wouldn't be interested."

The blonde woman knew that as soon as the other got a chance, she'd be whispering questions at her, as fast as shots from an automatic. Deciding that she didn't really want to have the conversation at that exact moment – or ever, really – she took action. "I want shotgun now – Sam, it's your turn to be a sardine!" _Avoid, avoid as long as you can!_ She scrambled over the divide, pulling and pushing at Sam until he moved into the back – well, tried to. She pushed just that _little bit _too hard – by accident, of course – and sent him sprawling into the dark woman's lap.

Their eyes met, blue green staring up into brown ones, and even from where she was sitting the woman could feel the shift of time swirling around them, turning something that could have just been shrugged off into something meaningful as time stretched and warped, making the look feel a lot longer for the participants than it actually was.

The two in the front, left out of the loop, glanced at each other, amused and knowing exactly what was happening. The older boy, deciding to tweak his older brother privileges said, "Did you want us to come back later, Sam? Say, in a couple of hours?"

At that the two were scrambling apart, light blushes flickering over cheekbones, and nonchalant demeanours strapped on over bodies in place of seatbelts. The two of them studiously avoided looking at each other, and the blonde woman smiled, a secret smile unseen by anyone else.

The Winchesters, being who they were, shrugged it off, and the older boy turned on the ignition, as though nothing had happened at all. The blonde woman, unwrapping her second choice of candy bar, having sacrificed the first for no reason as it turned out, saw the look shot at her from the rear view mirror. It read, clearly and succinctly, _'you'd better explain'_.

Oh how she couldn't wait.

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AN: Hee. Oh, you know you love it, really. This chapter was definitely SamSharika centric. Hardly any DeanLauren, which is, you know, a shame. But that's okay! Next chapter is half-drunken angst ahoy!

Reviews – reviews, man, they are my crack. I am a confirmed addict. If I don't get reviews from my favourite readers, and all you wonderful lurkers, I just end up all teary. It's pathetic really. Just thought you guys should know that, and act accordingly. You scratch my itch, I scratch yours – with more bathrooms and Dean and Lauren. Wait… which Dean, though? I'm innocent, sue my muses.

_Promo: _

_Two Deans. Except this time one of them isn't supernatural, and the other is groping some random bar whore. Guess who? Vodka doesn't help; avoiding Sharika is still high on the list of priorities, and circus themes run riot. Tune in for suffocating skirts, surreptitious mentions of Oprah, and_ _Creutzfeldt-Jakob._ _All in the next chapter of Believing Improbable Things – You Can't Expect To Turn Away Tonight._


	27. You Can’t Expect To Turn Away Tonight

You guys know the drill by now. This is the last disclaimer, because I get pissy and pouty that I have to keep saying it and realising that I do not own Supernatural, the Winchesters, or any ounce of sanity. I WISH I DID, THOUGH!!

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27. You Can't Expect To Turn Away Tonight

_Love sees sharply, Hatred sees even more sharp, but Jealousy sees the sharpest for it is Love and Hate at the same time._

_-- Arab Proverb_

"I'll be fine," I laughed, sliding off my seat on the black hood of the Impala, pulling my skirt down from where it had gathered around the tops of my thighs, feeling the shock of contact travel up my ankles as my feet connected with the ground. The hot night air, humid and dusty from the sun's assault on the earth, clung in my throat when I breathed in, and I swallowed to moisten my mouth, running my tongue over dry lips. "I'm only going to be in there for – what? Not even three minutes? What can happen to me in that time?" I asked Sharika and Sam, who were still sitting against the black metal and windscreen, heads bent over the newspaper in Sam's big hands, legs sprawled out in front of them. They looked more couple-y than I knew they'd ever believe, but standing as I was, an observer outside of their immediate proximity, I could see the sparks, I could see the comfort, I could feel the waves of rightness and connection, and desire. And just like a couple, they reacted to my words, and I felt a jolt of amusement just under my chest, and hid it inside a single dimple. Their eyes studied me with affectionate humour – they, as well as I did, knew I could get into trouble in a _church_; in a biker-bar-slash-pool-hall, who knew what I'd get myself into? "Nothing, that's what," I answered myself, and their identically speaking blue green and brown eyes, flippantly. And, I have to admit, pretty untruthfully – sometimes I even went looking for trouble, just to entertain myself. There was one time I deliberately stepped on the foot of a reported murderer, who had this crazy obsession with Astaroth (hell's treasurer) and personal space bubbles, just to see if I could take him out. I could. Then of course, there were the various dangerous types I flirted with outright, for the entertainment value of leaving their asses to hang out to dry, when I conveniently 'forgot' where I was supposed to be meeting them. Not to mention the millions of escapades Sharika and I got up to, when everything was okay between us. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," I called as my parting shot, face pulled into a teasing grin, right eyebrow raised suggestively, seeing their eyes flicking the exact same look at me as the other, if they would only realise. They both thought I was talking to them individually, not as a whole.

I smirked to myself, walking through the dust that scorched my bare feet with the residue of the day's heat, heading towards the bar – something with 'Loading' in its name, I wasn't paying too much attention – and up the wooden stairs, splinters pricking my feet like the threat of one actually sticking in, as I wasn't wearing any shoes, simply as a relaxation tool because I'd been giving myself a foot massage. I'd gone too long without one, by my estimate, and the chances of getting any of my companions to do it were non-existent. And then and I wondered whether or not walking into a bar barefooted, to use the bathroom no less, was a smart idea. I realised – hey, no one ever said I was smart. And I _would_ only be in there for a couple of minutes. Maybe.

This, as well as an answer to nature's call, was part of my wonderfully working strategy to avoid Sharika, and the conversations sure to follow if she ever got me alone – _you and Dean had sex? God yes, and it was the best I've ever had. Oh, and by the way… I love him._ Yeah, not gonna happen. I'd had a lapse in judgement when I'd told her before – _major, really bad, not good, want-to-strangle-myself kind of lapse in judgement_ – and now I was just going to keep slipping away from her until she forgot about it – or at least gives up or loses interest or starts to think I was joking... Not likely to happen in any universe of course, but I had to try. And at least if I could avoid her for a while, I might be able to build up some resistance to my stupidity and mouth that has this undeniable urge to blab out every single incriminating thought. _Yeah_… I did mention the not likely part, right?

Still, a part of me was happy – I'd gotten _THAT_ particular issue off of my chest and in a way that I could almost get away with, because as a best friend she hadn't been able to retaliate – seeing as how the person we were talking about had just climbed in the car. I'd gotten the guilt-ridden, tell-your-best-friend-everything voice out of my head, _finally_ – unfortunately, it had been replaced by the oh-shit-what-else-will-pop-out voice, which was concerned with all the John issues… _Damn mind. _

Reaching the top of the deck I made my way over to the doors, and swung them open – you know those ones that hang from the middle, and are more like thick wooden shutters? The kind you always see in cowboy movies, and the like? – and strode into the room, eyes automatically scanning for Dean, as well as over the floor, so I could avoid any suspicious looking puddles and rough patches. But already, I couldn't see much at all. Immediately on entering, it was like a swarm of wayward wraiths were having a party around my head, trying to block my nose and sight off with wispy clouds of smoke, and keep me from seeing anything at all.

And then, after waving a hand in front of my face, I did. And wanted to invite the wraiths back, and tell them to bring all of their extended family, too. And their friends. And their friends' friends. And their friends' friend's extended family.

He was bent over a pool table on the left hand side of the room, spread across it like an offering to some horny pagan biker god, his hands steady on the cue stick as it slid between his fingers with practiced ease, somehow making it look dirty and like a come on, while some bottle-blonde-brunette pressed herself all against his ass, running her hands inside his t-shirt, breasts falling out of her own, and a skirt that wanted to be a belt when it grew up stuck as tight as lycra around her ass.

Suddenly the image of the belt growing took over my mind; I could see it swelling, growing, like those freakishly mutated tomatoes in that really old movie – _Attack of The Killer Tomatoes? –_ and finally becoming so large it enveloped her whole body and killed her by suffocation.

It was a very happy image.

He made his shot, and sunk two balls; one in the corner pocket, one in the middle. And then he turned around and –

The girl kissed him. And he let her – in fact, he moved into it, using the hand that wasn't wrapped around the pool cue to grab her stick-thin waist and pull her body against him, cocking his head to make it deeper, to lean into her and take what she was so blatantly offering.

I almost swallowed my tongue; feeling it burn and swell in the back of my throat, choking me with indescribable feelings and sensations and the knowledge that I could snap that skinny neck like a twig, as well as the fact that I wanted to. _I saw him first_ – she knew next to _nothing_ about him, besides the fact that he was fucking hot. She hadn't shared the things I had with him, she was just a passing bimbo and she wasn't nearly as close to him as I was – I knew things Sammy didn't even know for fuck's sake – the way his nose crinkles up in the left corner when he's reading something stupid, the way he moves when he's hurt and hiding it, the way he could read his brother's every thought, even if he didn't always express it. I wanted to choke that bitch with her split-ended hair, wrap it around her neck and just watch the life wither away from her, watch the bruises flower like karma and redemption. I wanted to see death claim her eyes, whatever insipid colour they may be. I wanted to tear her in two, to watch her eyes darken with pain, and hurt – I wanted to tell her to never again touch what was _mine_.

I started out of this dark fantasy, feeling a prickling sensation at the top of my nose, feeling my eyes sting from the bar's pervasive smoke, feeling my chest restrict from it too. Passive smoking's a bitch. And what the hell was I thinking – _mine_? He wasn't mine. He would _never_ be. _Had_ never been. I had no right, no right at all to be thinking anything but 'good for her' at that – _stupid fucking_ – woman, and Dean, well, good for him too. _I'm going to kill him. I'm going to – _so that not going away with waitresses thing, it was just an act, for my benefit? He didn't do it in front of me, so I wouldn't get hurt? Just so I wouldn't feel like crap in front of him, so he wouldn't feel guilty? _How fucking considerate – how – how – _I knew he never could have loved me.

I bit down, hard, on the inside of my lower lip, turning away from the sight, closing my eyes. My toes curled involuntarily into the wood on the floor – and finally, finally, I got a splinter. Right under the nail of my little toe, where it's guaranteed to hurt most. I looked down, seeing a bubble of blood appear under the nail and spread to darken the rest of the toe, and stared down at it as though it were some sort of omen.

_Blood blossoms and pain. _

I forced a smile onto the lower half of my face, as knives jabbed into my stomach and _twisted_, twisted hard again and _again_, hurt and betrayal and fury – _fine_. Fine, fine, fine, fine, _fucking_ _FINE_. I didn't have to just wait around, a moony, lovesick puppy, like an obsessed teenager in unrequited love with a crushing crush – I didn't have to be that person – I didn't _want_ to be that person – I wasn't going to be, not any more, not _ever fucking again. _

I could get over him. _I could – I could – _

I felt my façade crumbling on my features, and clenched my fists, hard. No. No, no, _no_. Walking up to the first guy I spotted at the bar, I sat down next to him, held my arms in that special way under my breasts –_ I must, I must, I must increase my bust _– and said, cocking my head to the side, and smiling, "What's your name?"

"Dean," he said, beard covering half his face, eyes glazed from alcohol struggling to focus on my face, but only getting as far as my mammary glands, face flushed from the heat of the room.

"That's perfect," I said. _Just fucking perfect._

000

Hands. Hands on me. Everywhere. Rough. They bruised and they pinched and they felt wrong. And I needed them. I needed this. Blind me. They blinded me and I needed – I wanted them to – I had to – had to –

There was panting and muffled cursing and fumbling hands; wafts of alcohol tainted breaths pouring onto my skin, staining me dirty colours like the wall of this bathroom. I am pressed up against the grubby white, in a parody of that other time, as everything is mirrored, and skewed – reminding me of circuses, of the hall of mirrors, faces everywhere – _hands everywhere_ – and its clouding my brain as everything is a dirtier version of ecstasy and I pull myself down into it. Pull myself down into it easily, the half bottle of vodka that I slugged down in two minutes, its cold burn that's still slicking the back of my throat, the toilet cleaner taste still harsh on my tongue, taking away any thoughts of false and not wanting and _Dean_ – the _real_ Dean – not this Dean who was barely coherent in his drunken ramblings against my neck, words like _'so hot'_, and _'yes'_, and _'oh god'_, whose hands with their dirty nails dug into my skin –_ hurting me – hurting – hurt me please _– mixing with the sounds of laughing and music from the bar – a song – I know that song – _your hands on me, pressing hard against your jeans, your tongue in my mouth, trying to keep the words from coming out – _his grey eyes half closed and lost in lust and confusion as I jerked him off, quickly, desperate to have anyone – _any Dean_ – wanting me. Smell the odour of piss and sweat surrounding me – the bathroom – the man – the world – buck my hips against him, feel it all, feel it like absolution – feel it like the promise of a promise of getting over Dean – _the real Dean_ – of moving on, of release of the stranglehold of love. _Please tell me I can be free. I want to be free. I hate him. I hate him. I love him. _

Feel the burning start – that of shame and wrongness – jerk my head away from his mouth to gulp down more vodka from the bottle in my free hand – lose those thoughts – lose them – calculate I have about thirty seconds before someone comes looking for me from outside – more vodka – it's a pleasant warmth now, its friendly, all encompassing – it'll take the thoughts away, it'll take the pain away – tell me you want me – tell me you need me – tell me someone needs me –

"I wan' you – _yes_ – oh god – so fucking –"

– _tell me – tell me –_

Expected, but no the less startling in its suddenness. And he's slumped on the floor, out cold; his head has just been crashed into the wall next to my own, hearing the crunch of his nose against tiles, seeing the blood on the wall – _red, red, red_ – and that face I hate – that face I love – that face I want – want to hurt him – _let me hurt him like he hurt_ _me_ – take him – looking down at me as my glazed eyes glide across the contours of the cheap copy on the floor, limbs sprawled in drunken, artistic disarray next to scuffed black biker boots – and he's broken – _broken_ – that's what _he_ does to everyone –

_I want him. I want to kill him. I want him to tell me he wants me, no one else. _

"What the hell were you doing?" he asks, getting in my space, like always making me back up, and in defiance, I take another swig out of the bottle in my hand, eyes clashing with his like a challenge. Hazel green and burning up from anger and something else that I can't be fucking bothered to analyse, too seeped in my own to care, too livid to try and rationalise, to make this better, to try.

"I was getting _laid_, man," I slur, and grin up at him, sleeves pulled down over my shoulders to bare my breasts, encased in their ragged white cotton bra, my skin with its red marks blossoming all over the scarce freckles and pale scars. I'm not broken too – see me – see how _not_ jealous I am of that _– bitch – whore – how dare she touch you when I can't – how dare she _– woman – I'm _not_ broken. _I don't – I won't – love you…_ My mind flashing back to that time I'd caught him outside that dirty gas station, fucking that woman in clear daylight against the concrete, and my mouth vomited some stupid words, my mind an incoherent jumble of vodka and thoughts, as I looked him straight in the eye, saying, "Isn't that what you're supposed to do in places like this? Fuck strangers against walls?"

"You're drunk," he says simply, face blank, and expressionless, almost, except for the tiny wrinkle next to his nose, informing me clear as words of his disgust in me, pulling my sleeves back on to my shoulders abruptly, brisk and service-like, uninterested, cleaning me up like some sort of older brother, like a mother – like a stranger – and I shrug him off me, pushing him back with half-drunken aggression. _No – no – no – you can't make me feel that, like that – I won't – I won't love you – stop making me want you –_ he barely moves back a step, coming back to button my shirt, to smooth out some crinkles, and I try not to arch into it like a dog, anxious for its master's attention. _Throw a dog a bone, would ya, Dean? _

"Did I ask you to touch me?" I bite out, and make to take another drink, but he pulls the bottle away from me, pours it down the sink. "What the fuck are you doing?" I hiss, trying to get it away from him, but he holds me back with one hand, emptying the comfort away. It's huge, commanding, and strong against my shoulder and I can't fight back, not in my state, and he knows it. He takes everything away from me. Self respect. Hope. Free will. And what the fuck does he give me? I shove him again, trying to start a fight, but he ignores me, chucking the bottle into a waste basket before turning back.

I don't know if he notices that he stepped on the other Dean's hand, but he did.

"We're leaving," he says, like I have no say, and moves to take my arm.

"Oh, you're done are you?" I mock, my face an ugly sneer that I can see reflected back at me, time and time again in the mirrors on either side of the bathroom, dirty and scratched and smeary – _house of mirrors – house of mirrors_ – "Finished screwing that blonde bimbo already?"

_No, no – I didn't want to tell him – I didn't want him to know – now he'll know – he'll figure it out – why – why I did this –_

"She was my pigeon." _Yeah, right. What kind of idiot do you think I am? _"When she lost, she didn't seem in the mood any more, for some reason. Now, move it."

"I will n–"

"Good." And he grabbed my arm, shoving me in front of him, pushing me towards the exit. Like I was some sort of criminal, as though I'd done something _wrong_. Like I was a child, a person who needed talking care of, didn't have the mental capacity to look after themselves. _Who the fuck did he think he was_, coming in there, _'saving me'_ playing the_ big strong manly man_, protecting the _damsel in distress_ when she didn't fucking _need_ to be protected, it was quite _obvious_ that she was _alright_ and _content_ and _drowning_ –

Nobody stared at us as we passed, used to this kind of thing, but out of principle I shrugged him off me again, reclaiming the last scraps, the last vestiges of dignity I could, straightening, tugging at my shirt as though he already hadn't made the effort, tucking hair behind my ears, pasting a bright smile on my features. The music was louder out here, the song having changed to _Evil Fantasies _by Judas Priest, stroking raw pain along my brain with soundwaves. It was all too real to be real, and I could barely stand the irony. The smell of alcohol staining the air was almost nirvana, compared to that of the bathroom, but I could still taste stale beer and breath and vodka in my mouth, the first two other Dean's essential tastes, the third mine. I acted as though there wasn't a flush across my cheekbones, the flush of embarrassment, one he'd probably take as desire for that drunken –

"This never happened, got it?" I asked, and glared at him. I couldn't let the other two know of what had happened – of the fact that once again I'd been caught with my pants down, so to speak – only the other Dean had physically, when this Dean came in and, well, did his thing – and I didn't want them worrying, misconstruing the situation, having one more thing that Sharika wanted to get me alone to talk to me about. He searched my eyes for a second, and obviously seeing my complete fury and menace – _yeah, fucking, right_ – nodded. Raising an eyebrow, he slapped on his own smile, and gestured for me to walk in front of him, all sarcastic gentlemanly. All sarcastic ladylike, I did so.

_Sober, sober and not torn into tiny paper pieces soaked with vodka. I can so get this past the other two. Sometimes they only see what they want to see. And I can fake normal better than a psychotic banker. _

I'd been in the bar for five and a half minutes.

I skipped down the stairs, quickly turning my stumble at the bottom into a tumble-roll to the car, popping up from the ground with a wide smile at Sharika and Sam, continuing my mentality's circus theme as Dean came up behind me, shuffling his money between his index finger and thumb, chuckling triumphantly, eyebrows raised and grin painted on like everything was just fine and dandy. He looked down at the green and started counting the notes.

"You know we could get day jobs once in a while," Sam said, almost as a question to his brother, moving the newspaper down so he could eye Dean with a look half disdainful, half self-deprecating. He knew what his brother would say.

Sharika looked at me with an almost question of her own in her eyes and one raised eyebrow, a look I smiled blatantly into the face of, then dismissed, snatching the newspaper out of Sam's hands to read the title he'd been looking at. 'Local Death A Medical Mystery'. And then the other one right under it, '_Accelerated_ Mad Cow Disease Suspected In Local Death'. _Ooh, buckets of fun._

"Hunting's our day job," Dean said, still looking down at his goddamn money, as Sam shot me a look, before raising his eyes to his older sibling again. "And the pay is crap."

_Speak the truth, father,_ I thought sarcastically, leaning back against the heated metal of the Impala between two pairs of legs, Sam's on my left, covered with well-broken-in blue jeans, Sharika's bare brown ones on my right, her sandals held on by the toes alone as she flexed her feet. I was forcing myself to focus on the conversation, to avoid the pain of my thoughts, to hide the dirty colour of my skin, after what I'd just done, to keep away from how I felt about all of it. I just wanted to forget it had ever happened.

"Yeah, but hustling pool? Credit card scams? It's not the most honest thing in the world Dean."

I kept my eyes on the paper, though my sight was just a _little_ too blurry to focus on the smaller print. But no one had to know that. Let's just not breathe on anybody, or try to walk too fast, or on a straight line.

"Well let's see, honest," Dean said, holding up his right hand, the one without the money in it, "fun and easy," holding up the one _with_ the money in it, balancing his hands like a scale, until the one with the cash in it drooped lower, showing his obvious preference. _Yeah, whoring yourself out to chicks for money, playing them like cheap violins, of course its fun and easy. You just don't care about anyone but yourself, do you? No one but you and Sam, and nobody else's feelings because you just butt out of that load of crap. _I shook my head, trying to clear it. Great, I was in bitter, maudlin drunk mode. Super! It wasn't true – it _was_ true – I was just feeling really, really –_ I hate him_ – not myself. "It's no contest," Dean said, and Sam grinned, Sharika grinned, I faked a grin, as he continued. "Besides, we're good at it; it's what we were raised to do."

"Yeah, well how we were raised was jacked," Sam said, daring his brother to deny it. Which, of course, Dean took pleasure in doing, shuffling his money again; almost caressing it like it was his fucking best friend. If we didn't need it, I'd grab it from his hands, chuck it on the ground, watch it get swept away by the dry wind, and start yelling about how much I just wish he'd wake up and how I just – I wish I still had that bottle. Oblivion was looking mighty good right about now.

"Yeah, says you. We got a new gig or what?"

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said, hopping off the hood of the Impala, and snagging the newspaper back from me. I tried to give the illusion of a struggle; but what the fuck use did I have for it any way? Spearing a hand through my hair, closing my eyes and breathing in deep through my nose, letting the dusty night air cloud my head even more, letting it settle over all my thoughts, I wished I could just melt away into the heat radiating up from the ground. Or maybe wished I could fly away and be emancipated, like I thought maybe that other Dean could do for me, with cheap, rough, fast sex that meant nothing to anyone, but could maybe jerk me back down out of whatever half deluded place I'd been living.

That fucking shapeshifter had just confused everything. That brunette-gone-blonde had clarified it again. I had no chance. And that was that. Dean did not love me. Never would. I had to get over myself.

Sharika continued Sam's start, as Dean moved closer and Sam spread the newspaper out on the hood next to Sharika's legs. "We think there may be one in Oasis Plains, Oklahoma, not far away from here," she said, pointing at the writing I'd read earlier. Mad Cow Disease. If only.

"Gas company employee," Sam went on, "Dustin Burwash, supposedly died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob."

"Huh?" Dean asked, looking stupid. Like a _dummy_. _Ha ha, he's such a dummy_…

Oh, _please_ tell me I am not falling into the immature, childish insult phase. _God, I'm such a nerd, I use multi-syllabic words in my thoughts… _"I thought they were calling it human mad cow disease?" I asked, pulling on my own confused face, and keeping my voice from slurring with an effort of will that should be commended by god. To keep the S's from smelling the liquor on my breath, I pointed my face up at the stars as though fascinated with them, and uninterested in our newest hunt, leaning back on my elbows, to steady me against the car. "What the hell is Creutzfeldt-Jakob?"

"It's the _scientific_ name for human mad cow disease," Sam said, and rolled his eyes slightly, an act I saw out of the corner of my eyes.

"I see. And you didn't just say that because…?" I raised my eyebrows, knowing he could see it, trying to incite someone to fight with me, _anyone_.

Sharika butted in, to prevent a futile argument from springing up, _damn her_. "Anyways…"

"Mad cow?" Dean interrupted her, moving to press his palms against the car's hood and lean in to look at the paper. "Wasn't that on Oprah?"

Three sets of shocked eyes swivelled towards him. "You watch Oprah?" Sam asked, mouth opened slightly, eyes widened.

"_You_ watch _Oprah_?" Sharika repeated, and I could see the laughter crinkling her eyes; she was already past the first shock and into the deep-belly-cramping-laughter stage. "Are you serious?"

I was still stunned, along with Sammy. _Dean. Oprah. Wow. _

Dean, paused for a second, and I could practically see the little Dean scrambling around behind his hazel green eyes, looking for a way to get out of this one. He looked at his brother silently for this elapsed moment, flicking his eyes away and back again, bobbing his head a little, lips also slightly parted – and in an unconscious gesture I licked my own dry ones. _No, no – think about deteriorating brains and Oprah. Not Dean's – gorgeous, beautiful, fucking miraculous – shut up! – mouth. _"So this guy eats a bad burger, why's it our kind of thing?" Dean asked, finally opting for avoiding the topic all together. As Sam looked back down at the paper, I saw Dean clench his jaw and furrow his eyebrows slightly, obviously calling himself an idiot in his head.

I had to smile, and then turned my attention back onto Sam's voice, trying to coach myself, to shut my thoughts up._ He was kissing that woman. You can't like him still. Can't fucking love him – oh, but I do._

_Can you beat your mind into submission with blunt instruments?_

"Mad cow disease causes massive brain degeneration; it takes months, even years for the damage to appear, but this guy Dustin? Sounded like his brain disintegrated in about an hour. Maybe less."

Dean bobbed his head again – _like one of those bobble-head dolls, do I have to strap his damn neck in a brace?_ – and said, "Yeah, that's weird," in acceptance.

"Yeah," Sharika confirmed, nodded, next to my shoulder. _They're all bobble-heads._ "It could be mad cow disease. Or it could be something much worse. Up for a trip into the desert?"

"Alright," Dean said, standing up again, fully – _no, don't even think that 'e' word_ – erect – _damnit!_ – and clapped his hands together as my mind zinged off to drunkenly hazed dark and writhing places. "Oklahoma!" We all hopped off the front of the car, and walked around to the car's doors, opening our respective sides. Although Sharika was closer to the side Sam was moving to, the right, I was faster in getting there, meaning she had to go round behind Dean.

She shot me a lightly confused look while doing so, and I returned it with a bland, 'what?' kind of smile, acting as though _absolutely _nothing was wrong. Yeah, avoiding. Classic Lauren copping out on anything that makes her even slightly uncomfortable. Needles to say, being near Dean right now came under that list. Being anywhere near enough to touch, triple time.

Though god knows I wanted to.

Being drunk is very confusing, and incoherent. I had to ignore most of the things popping into my brain, because they were all so obviously not true. _Obviously_.

"Man," Dean said, walking around to the driver's side with his usual, relaxed gait. You'd never be able to tell there was anything up, unless you had studied the hold of his shoulders and jaw for as long and as closely as I had; you'd never be able to see the almost invisible signs of anger around his eyes and mouth, the slight flaring of his nostrils. "Work, work, work. No time to spend my money." It's a classic Dean making a joke to cover up anything that makes him even slightly uncomfortable action. As well as beyond so cute I choked on my tongue again.

Oh well, at least I wasn't the only one feeling the strain of the fake sunshine and daffodils attitude. I had no doubt I'd get the sharp end of this stick later. If he wasn't too disgusted to come anywhere near me. And if I let him.

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AN: I was gonna update yesterday, but I didn't have enough written… okay, I still don't have enough written and I shouldn't be updating early but I just love you guys too much! This one is especially for Delsunshine who nagged me all week for an update; my selective walker, I sends you my love. Lol. Thanks for the pm's!

Can't tell you what the next chapter is called, because it's a SECRET. And it gives too much away. But I can tell you it involves the Pope, barbeque, and truths revealed at last. You know you love me, really. See you all on Sunday!!


	28. Watch Us Fight For All The Wrong Reasons

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28. Watch Us Fight for All the Wrong Reasons

_The reason there are two sides to begin with usually is because neither side has all the facts._

_-- Stephen R. Schwambach_

She lies in the empty motel bed, limbs sprawled in the abandon of those who have too much room after having been in cramped space, and are taking advantage, both feet hanging off the sides, one arm flung out near the night stand, the other curled around the pillow beneath her head. Her mouth is open slightly against it, nose snuggling against the cushion as she rubs her cheek into the worn fabric, sleep revealing her as an essentially affectionate person. She's waking up, but she doesn't know this yet. Only the silent observer, a half smiling figure on the other bed is aware, the expression playing about their lips, and they stay silent, waiting, relishing the fact that they finally have the blonde woman right where they want them.

Her face presses into the pillow and she yawns widely, eyes tightly closed, hands clutching at each side of the pillow as she finally awakens, and stretches, the muscles all over her body tautening, those of her shoulders, arms and upper back revealed by the sheet that has slipped down to her waist, lying under the white material of her shirt. Her head drops back on her neck as her body finally relaxes, and she sighs, half out of pleasure at the satisfying contraction, half resignation of the fact that she's awake and must face another day.

Hazel green and golden eyes flick open, only to be immediately confronted by amused, gratified chocolate brown ones, their owner with a far-too-pleased smirk spread across the familiar, dark features.

Sharika has caught her at last.

"_YOU SLEPT WITH DEAN?!_" the dark woman yells, barely a second after the fact that she's well and truly cornered has registered in the other's mind, and she winces at the combination of noise and surprise at the loud exclamation. Sharika is rarely so vocal; but then, she muses, she'd been sitting on this particular egg for couple of days, long enough for it to get rather irritating.

This rationalising isn't really making her feel any better.

Her ears kind of hurt, after the abuse – and more importantly, she wanted to run as far away as her legs could take her. _If she took one minute breathers every half an hour, she could probably reach the borders of Oasis Plains in say… two days…_ _But there really wouldn't be anywhere to hide, considering the undeveloped parts were mostly all desert…_ why was she even considering getting away? She knew she couldn't. It was better just to face up to this, to squash down the instinctual fear of being confronted and discovered and cornered like a small mouse by a cat, because it was ridiculous to feel that way. _It was just Sharika – it was just a question_ – and yet, she couldn't bring herself to say a word.

At her non-answer, and studiously blank face, only the faintest quirk of an honey eyebrow giving a hint of expression – that of sarcastic, almost amusement – the dark woman starts speaking again – still at full volume – gesticulating her hands, body language tense with confusion, the need to know, with her frustration. "_When?_ Oh my god – _the library?!_"Eyebrows raised in obvious questioning, the dark woman cocks her head forward, intent and waiting for the blonde woman to say something, body language purposefully not frenetic now, smoothed over with daily care and precision to detail. But the blonde woman can tell her mindset is clashed somewhere between wanting to laugh, shocked, and confused – she wanted to understand everything, what prompted this action, what exactly happened – all the whys.

She finds it vaguely amusing for a moment, that her fucked up world can squeeze itself somewhere between normal. The situation – a woman sleeping with a man she's in love with, and telling her best friend about it – is inherently ingrained into most people's lives. Into _normal_ people's lives. She relishes this fact for a moment, that this is a typical thing to occur between best friends, until her mind jerks her back into the true state of affairs. She slept with Dean, not some random guy. She slept with _Dean_, and that wasn't normal; it wasn't normal at all.

The blonde woman, still lying on the bed, chin propped up on one hand, eyes carefully not expressing any of her thoughts, quietly panics. She can't do this – she _can't_. Admitting to it makes it more real, something that can't just be passed off as a half-dream, something that may or may not have happened, because it was so shockingly in tune with her fantasies, her wishes, her hopes. Nothing in his behaviour could relate to what had happened – maybe she did just imagine it all. If she can just keep saying that, maybe she can convince herself that the purple bruises from afterwards, on her waist, the reddish ones on her neckline, the whisker burn that had appeared on her breasts – it was all just a very, very vivid dream.

_Yeah, right. _

"Where on _earth_ would you get that idea?" she asks anyway, if only to try this tactic, to see if she can make the dark woman think she was joking when she'd said it. Her face has eyebrows raised up in amused questioning, a smile that's close to that of laughing pulling at her lips; it's a face she deliberately put on to try and throw Sharika off, because even though she knew it would never work, she had to try. Fleetingly she wishes she had been able to tell the dark woman this in a way that could have been easily shrugged off, seen as a joke, instead of telling her outright, almost furtively, and then avoiding her as though she had the plague, which only would have compounded the suspicions. It was stupid to even try and wriggle her way out of it now, but she couldn't help herself. This instinctual deny, defend reaction is warring with the need to unburden everything, just as it had been when she'd first dropped the bomb. Maybe Sharika can provide previously unthought of views and explanations – maybe she can help – _maybe_ – _maybe_ –

Quickly she mentally shakes her head, dislodging these thoughts from their tenuous residence in her brain, dismissing them as ridiculous. She gets up and walks into the room's kitchenette, dying to remove herself from the situation – using the excuse of a glass of water to do it. Her throat is getting dry from the worry anyway; it's legitimate enough.

The dark woman follows her, pacing after her with swift, soft steps, refusing to be rejected, a stern look spread across her features – it's the promise of drawing the truth out, bit by painful bit. Cracks appear in the blonde woman's armour – _how can she _stand up against that? She's going to spill it all – she's going to – going to –

"Lauren!" Sharika snaps, just behind her, but she declines to turn around, muscles tensed underneath the stubbornly tranquil line of her shoulders, hands going about their business of filling up the grimy glass, watching the clear water near the brim before she snaps the tap off, the metal cool and wet under her palm, the ridges digging into her skin. "I never thought that you would go that far, I mean, I just thought you guys kissed and that's it. Not that you actually had sex! You two are always at each others throats, most of the time just for the fun of it! So you two _actually_…?"

"Fine, yes," she says, taking a sip out of the glass, licking moisture from her top lip as she takes the glass away again. Her emotions – fear, need and desperation – threaten to overwhelm her, dancing at the edges of her eyelids as though they are real people, and she bites the inside of her lip, hard. _Stay calm, just stay calm_. She scrutinizes the water carefully, eyes tracking the miniscule particles floating around in the liquid, like millions of possible answers in her head. "What's the big deal? It's not like I went and slept with the Pope or something. It was just Dean." _Just Dean. Just Dean._ She could almost laugh; this comment is so dismissive and blatantly untrue. _Just Dean._ _You_ _might_ _as_ _well_ say 'just the Pope'. That's what it was like, at least for her.

Suddenly, thoughts of all the previous times the two women had had conversations like this popped into the blonde one's head. She'd regaled her friend with many stories of her night's in other men's beds – every single one of them, in fact, often too descriptively, if the way the black head disappeared under pillows and shrieked at her to stop, laughing, were any indication, because they used to share everything – and questions like this had always followed upon the proclamation of her activities. The comparison of those light hearted, young scenes to this one was vivid; previously she'd never felt so strongly about the man she'd done the horizontal with, she'd never loved him as she loved Dean, with this roaring, conflicting, all-consuming passion. She'd never felt the need to keep back any information from her best friend, she'd divulged it all, with excessive hand movements to punctuate. This atmosphere – it wasn't humorous and easy, it didn't feel like something straightforward and uncomplicated that she was revealing, it felt like a murky, forbidden secret. Everything was weighted down by everything else that she couldn't say, every word she couldn't utter, in case it alluded to something else.

"But Lauren – I mean, how do you feel about him? How does he feel about you? And how – never mind, I don't want to know." Sharika says this last sentence with a dismissive wave of her hand, a quick shake of the head, the expression on her face almost horrified at whatever it was she had been about to ask – or babble, really, considering the speed of the previous questions. The blonde woman has a fair idea what it might have been – something along the lines of, 'how big was he'? Or maybe, bearing in mind the actual person, and not her _own_ mind – _don't want to think about that… okay, maybe she does, but it is so not the time _– 'how was it'? "But how did it happen? You're in love with him? Are you? _Are you?_"

"What question did you want me to answer first, exactly?" the blonde woman asks, a half smile smeared across her face, bright, gaudy war paint. She tries not to show the reactions she has to each of these enquiries, like bullets, scattered so fast through her body, ricocheting off the walls of her brain to produce answers that she really doesn't want to impart. _How does she feel about him? Crazy. How does he feel about her? Impossible to know. How did it happen? Fast and rough against a bathroom wall, as his estimation of an apology for making her mad. Just don't – please. Don't – just don't ask the – _

"Are you in love with him?"

"Why couldn't you choose any other question?" she returns, and silently despairs. Now she's settled on the most important question, the dark woman won't let go – she'll hold on, as tenacious as a bulldog, until Lauren's mouth is torn in half, opens to spill all the answers. And that's how she feels about Dean, deep down somewhere, under the layers of lust and admiration and respect; she feels rendered in two, hate and love warring inside her so strongly it's hard to tell each side apart sometimes. It's an insane, chaotic mess of emotions, the side that hates him wanting to protect her against more hurt, disliking the almost casual way he treats her. The side that loves him – well, it's always been there, since that time in the bar when she'd been half drunk and calling him an idiot inside her head, distrustful and proud and loving the way he moved as though he was made out of water, so smooth in his motions, so sure and graceful. Love usually presides, but the hate has been clouding her slightly lately, since the woman at the bar, and the consequences of her jealousy and wounded pride making her react to what he'd done. On one hand, she sure as hell couldn't blame him for that; she'd gone straight ahead and done it with no one goading her on but her own mentality. On the other – she sure as hell _could_; she wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been swathed around that woman as tight as cling-wrap. Of course, the hate is entirely wishful thinking on her part, the last vestiges of self-control and thought, so she didn't give unto the compulsion of him entirely; but it could fake hard enough to be believable, when he was such a fucking ass that she had to crawl back from her real emotions.

"Do you, Lauren?" the dark woman asks, just as the blonde knew she would – but still her shoulders tense, and her grip tightens on the smooth surface of the glass, her hands slipping on the water, down and down. She turns away, takes another quiet sip to steady herself, to keep from answering. The water is as ashes in her mouth, but she swallows it down, counselling – _just keep quiet – keep quiet – not a word_ – _she can't – she doesn't trust herself not to let more out – to tell her everything, as the stupid, optimistic side is clamouring for her to – _"Lauren," Sharika says, and she flicks an involuntary glance back over her shoulder before facing forwards again, desperate to escape, but not knowing where she can. It's impossible. The questions are too heavy – too much – she's going to break, because even though on the surface they're light and questions any good friend would ask, they're shattering the fragile calm that's existed since the incident – _don't think about it, don't talk about it – it'll all go away –_ and it's not good for her mouth at all. If she opens about this, what else will she say? "I told you how I felt about Sam when you asked me – it's only fair that you do the same."

This is true. It's also grating. And guilt-tripping. And you can't take anything a person says under duress as the _truth – _"I've been in love with him since our first hunt together. How's that?" _Oh fuck. _Acting completely nonchalant at this admittance, she takes another mouthful of water, just holds it in her mouth, wishing for escape. She can't swallow.

"How does he feel about you?"

And then she can – a shocked, startled, almost aggressive reaction, and she slams the glass down, water sloshing down over the sides and on to her hand. She spins her body back to face the dark woman, eyebrows drawing down, jaw clenching as she grinds her teeth against the words that long to fling out. Her fists tighten at her thighs, as she tries to restrict herself – _it's just a question – just a question – an acceptable question for the scenario – what does the woman think – that – that what? She can read minds? That she just knows? What? That she should know? _How was she _supposed_ to know – she's wanted to know _all_ this time, has been _freaking_ _out_ about the answer, and then the other woman asks like it's _easy_? She's inexplicably angry, the emotions grating on her skin like fire – like pain – like _god, if she knew, would she really be doing this?_ "Yeah, 'cause I'm a fucking mind reader, who knows everyone's thoughts, how everyone feels. How the hell should I know, okay? What am I supposed to do – ask? No. Not happening." She's prattling very slightly, the words and thoughts scrambling in her brain and not coming out right – becoming confusing – becoming wrong. She can't think.

"I'll ask him."

"No, you won't," the blonde deadpans, refusing to let her mind even consider this idea. It's stupid. Ridiculous. _No, no, no! She doesn't want to know – she wants to know – oh god, why? Why? _

"I'll ask Sam to ask him."

"Also, no, you won't."

"Why not? Don't you want to know how he feels?"

_Yes. _"No. It wasn't anything, okay? If that's what you're thinking. It was _just_ _sex_." Just mind-blowing-ly wonderful, fantastic, want-to-jump-him-even-more-now sex. Just she loves him. Just she wants him. _Oh, god. _She's avoiding the topic again, diligently. Of course she wants to know – _is dying to know_… isn't she?

"Lauren, you know how I feel about sex, and you know that I know how you feel about it."

_Point being? _"A useful physical release?" she asks, raising her eyebrows, war paint cracking and covering her lower face again, too red and white, too wide, too garish to be taken seriously.

"No. You know how it gets to you when you love someone."

Yes, it feels like connection – like religion. Like rightness. Perfection. Like it's not just two bodies, but two souls. A physical expression of emotion. At least, that's how it was with Dean, that one fucking time that she'd let him in – it had been different than any other experience, with any other guy she'd ever had. It had been – it had just – except it _wasn't_. _It was just sex. _"I don't – I'm not – okay, so now you know, can we drop this?" _I don't feel like that. I'm not in love with him. STOP FUCKING LYING._ "Where'd the boys go?"

"Fine, if you want to drop this, I'll just –" the dark woman starts, but then her real emotions take over and she starts exclaiming again – "_YOU HAVE TO TELL HIM!" _

"No, I won't – okay?! It was just – it was _just sex_. And I don't want to tell him, I know he doesn't feel the same – and it'll just fuck everything up, all right?" She picks the glass up again, only to slam it back down before taking a drink – she's got too much energy – too much – she can't – "Everything! Hunting, all of us, this whole fucking thing will just be even worse! Jesus – I can't –" – _I want to – _"I can't – okay? I just can't. It wasn't just sex for me, alright, I'll admit that. But it _was_ for him. Just – I was just a convenient fuck. I was just there, and so was he, and it happened. End of story."

This isn't just dramatic posing to get the other woman off her case; it's what she really believes. She was the convenient fuck, there at the right time and in the right mood to be taken, to be controlled and uncontrollable, to feel all of Dean, have him feel her, but not entirely, not enough to have him see beneath the surface. The quickie in the bathroom had allowed that, had allowed her to be semi-free, express emotions in a physical manner. But she knew that she could never actually _tell _Dean. She could never actually _show _him how she truly felt; it would be a gross misjudgement, proof that she really did lack common sense, and even the base intelligence it took to keep her mouth shut about things that would irrevocably land her in deep shit. If he knew about her true feelings, she wasn't even sure what he'd do. Leave her? It was the longest running trend in her life. Perhaps he'd just remove himself from her, mentally and emotionally, than he even previously has. She doesn't know – but one thing is for certain. She sure as hell doesn't want to find out.

The dark woman makes a wordless, exasperated sound, which the blonde one ignores. It's all true – _the truth_ – and she knows it. It's been in her head from the start – the library, the shapeshifter, the woman at that bar last night – it all just compounded on what she should have always known – what she _had_ always known – she was just _there_. "This self-deprecating crap again? Then why doesn't he sleep with waitresses anymore? Why does he always look at you when you're looking away? Why does he… I know he does two other things, but I can't remember what they are."

She almost smiles at this typically Sharika-like response, but instead her mind jerks back onto the first thing said. _He does sleep with those waitresses – we just don't see it_, she thinks, but what comes out of her mouth is, "I probably gave him crabs. Whatever. I don't care. And the looking thing? Yeah, it's called – _'how the hell did I manage to come with that on top of me?_'"

Incredulous, Sharika stares at her. She can hardly believe she said it herself, although it's exactly how she feels – undesirable, unlovable to him. He can have practically anyone he wishes; why the hell would he ever like – _want_ someone like her? Let alone _love_ someone like her. "Lauren, denial? _Denial?_ Isn't it worth the risk?" Sharika's giving her that patented earnest look, eyes wide and sincere, mouth set in that expression between a frown and a disappointed pout, eyebrows raising slightly to beetle in the middle, giving the appearance of worry and care. Her body is deliberately open and softened, trying to encourage trust. The blonde woman eyes it all, jaded, wishing she was wearing jeans, or at least some clothing item with pockets, so she can shove her hands in there, instead of having them loose and helpless by her side – taskless, unsure of what to do, where to turn, how to react. "Look, he loves you back or he wouldn't have slept with you." Lauren opens her mouth to dispute the absolute stupidity of this – _he loves practically every diner waitress in the country? Holy hell_ – but then Sharika backtracks a little, saying, with a very small, still earnest, smile, "Or at least he thinks you're hot. You know the type of women Dean goes for –" Discreetly, the blonde women checks out her chest. _Yeah, no wonder he slept with her. Damn._ "– and if he thinks you're hot, there is definite potential there. That is advice you gave me, remember?"

"No – no he doesn't – he didn't –" She's incoherent, – its ridiculous that the dark woman can use her own words against her, can throw them back in her face like a challenge to refute it. It's not true, he doesn't find her attractive –_ because you're fucking beautiful, alright?! _– God, she has to forget that, it was just – and now she's just trying to deny, convince herself as well as the other woman, explain with out letting out all the truth, without telling her best friend everything. Pace up and down, recite Latin, exorcise the words. _Some best friend you are – won't even tell her that one thing you sadistic –_ back and forth, back and forth, black and white square tiles with their dirty footprints and their cracks – back and forth, back and forth – _verum quod infidus specialis quod diligo_ – truths and the untrue – secrets and love – back and forth – "You don't understand at all! It meant nothing! It was just a combustion of all these stupid things and it's just –"

She's said too much – turning away she smacks her palm to her forehead, waiting – waiting. And the dark woman picks up on it, just as it's known she would have.

"Combustion of _what_, Lauren?" _You just had to ask that, didn't you? _"What? I get why he was pissed."

Now she's started she can't seem to stop. "Yeah, because of the dressing down you gave him about John?"

A pause hangs in the air that's almost powerful, and the atmosphere thickens until it's so heavy you couldn't cut it with a baronet, weighing down on the two women like curses. Like truths and lies, like secrets and love.

And hate.

_Abominor._

"How do you know about that?" The dark woman's face is cold, closed off, shuttered as her eyes flicker with uncertain emotions, half realised truths. Although the blonde woman has been on the receiving end of an endless plethora of Sharika's looks in the past, she's never had this one aimed at her, the expression so frigid it was like the very air had grown icicles, icicles with sharp edges and dark shadows. The dark woman's body is tensed and reflects a freezing image of impassivity, a blockade against the other seeing what she's thinking, concluding, even before she speaks.

"He told me." The words come too fast – too fast to be truth, too glib to be taken in any form. Her eyes give her away too – too wide with instinctual panic, too harried and worried with how the dark woman will feel – how she will react, what she will do. There is no question of her figuring it all out. And the blonde slumps in defeat, the weight of the ice finally getting to her skin, under her skin, revelling inside it, glorying in destruction, the melting of the barriers and the lies and the fragile defences.

"He wouldn't…" the dark woman says slowly, eyes squinting ever so slightly as she works it out, studying the blonde women with single minded intent as her brain dissects her words from every angle, and come to the conclusion it was known she would. "Not in the state he was in… He wouldn't… He's a protector… You over heard. Didn't you?" Hazel green and gold eyes meet her brown ones, sadness, remorse, and something akin to fear in their multi-hued depths. Needing to know, she repeats herself, the anger overcoming her better judgement. "_Didn't_ you?"

"_Yes, I did_ – okay? Happy now?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Brown eyes are distrustful, wide and hurt and condemning, looking at her like they can't even deem her real, and not a figment of a rather horrid and distasteful nightmare, like she's some kind of scum. And she can believe this – because it's definitely how she feels. Angry, feverish body language shouts a need to be careful at Lauren, because though Sharika hides it beneath her layers of sweetness and naivety, her kindness and practicality, she can be a danger to herself and everyone around her. Any backlash from an out of control psychic attack, and she could be dead before she takes another breath. This isn't what worries Lauren overly, though – the fact that the other woman is this livid that she even has these things fleeting through her brain is the real problem, as she knows Sharika would never hurt her on purpose.

The blonde woman closes her eyes – the better to get away from that accusing stare she's been envisioning ever since she thought about telling her best friend that she knew – ever since she started hiding the truth. She hated herself now – she just wanted to make it better. Not out of a need to simply downplay the situation, to escape it, to not have to deal with it; but because she hated seeing Sharika in pain.

_Okay, and maybe she did just want it to be over – a little. _

"Because of _this_ –" she says, flinging her hands wide, indicating their bodies, their surroundings, the tension and the anger and the words – "I knew we'd fight, okay, and I didn't want to have to deal with that." _Telling the truth really sucks shit. _"I didn't want to make it bad between us again. We're – we were – _better_. We were us, for a while. I didn't –"

The dark woman interrupts her, an explosion of pent up, repressed fury and frustration, face tight, body very slightly shaking. The emotions coming off her spilled into the air like scent; burning and heated metal and dead grass. "No, we weren't. It was all just pretend! You know how horrible I felt – carrying that secret. You knew how much it was hurting me. Do you – oh, I guess you didn't even care about me, as long as…"

_What? What was she going to say? As long as the blonde woman didn't have to deal with it? As long as everything was okay in her own deluded little world? _The fact that the other woman thinks this, was on the borderline of saying it – the thing that hurts the most, that stabs and twists the guilty knife in her gut even sharper, harder, cuts it upward and leaves her open and bleeding is the fact that the dark woman believes she never cared – never gave a fuck about what the other woman felt, thought, was going through. This is blatantly untrue – but then, she had never shown it. She'd fixated herself on the fact that all control had been taken away from her, by Sharika, by John, so she wouldn't have to deal with her bigger issues and emotions, wouldn't even have to think about them. But the fact that Sharika can believe this of her – thought that she would be so cold, so uncaring, so _heartless_ – it breaks her.

"What the – of course I fucking _cared_ – you're my _best friend_ –"

And then the motel door opens and they spin towards it, bodies rigid and drawn up with the force of their emotions – distrust zips through the air like an insect, biting their skin continuously, sliding and nipping every bit of exposed skin, every vulnerable part of them. The boys enter the room, smiling and joking amongst themselves, seeming to not even realise the fire-fuelled atmosphere, the unfurled banners of truth and surrender to misgivings. "Come on girls, we're hungry for some barbeque," the oldest boy says, grin pulled over his features like too much of everything to handle – _too much – too much –_

The dark woman storms past the boys, darkness etched into her skin deeper than simply colour; she's off to fester in her emotions, and helplessly the blonde woman feels her mouth open to deliver a parting dig – _so now Sharika is off to escape the situation, to have alone time like she hasn't been able throughout this whole fucking thing _– "Oh, Sharika," she calls, her eyes wide with so much innocence, projecting that guileless vibe she can pull off like no other, and the brown orbs clash with hers, where they've paused at the door. "What about the hunt?"

The dark woman shakes her head, disgust and disbelief spread over those features, the mask ripped away for the first time since she'd rejoined her – her what? Best friend? Not any more. Her past? This look makes the blonde woman swallow convulsively, swallow the tears, swallow the broken and bleeding pieces of heart that lodge themselves in the back of her throat as the other woman leaves.

Fear strikes in the middle of the blonde woman's stomach –_ leaving – she wouldn't – she wouldn't – would she? – _and she studiously hides it, looking down at her nails, yawning and spearing the spare hand through her hair, rubbing the back of her neck. Blue green and hazel green eyes run over her like cold water, and she ignores them.

The taller boy spins to go after the other woman – and she feels something very like anger run through her. _He cares more about the dark woman than he does about her. He didn't even ask how she felt, he just automatically – instinctively – went after Sharika, as though she meant nothing, these past months together meant nothing to him. She was nothing. _She shakes it off quickly, calling herself absurd, but never the less stopping him, saying, voice thick with nonchalance and almost boredom – "_Don't_ – she – she needs to be alone."

_Selfish. Selfish bitch. _

She's talking to herself.

Sam nods, though he looks worried, those expressive eyebrows drawn over his eyes, mouth pulled down in one corner and he leaves with her and his brother, after she's thrown a top on, some jeans to occupy her hands.

She's just coming up behind the boys, after digging her jacket out of the bottom of the Impala, when she hears the old guy at the door insinuating that the two Winchesters are gay – with each other.

_Yeah,_ she thinks to herself, beneath the laugh she shows the world. _Appearances can be deceiving, can't they?_

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AN: Well, how's that for secrets revealed, oh my loyal following? Hee! I know, I know, EVIL – but you know me, I can't help myself. This will be cropping up again in the chapters after the next – but chapter 29… well, you'll all see.

Okay, for those who keep asking me about the UST (unresolved sexual tension, right?) NEVER FEAR!! No, we are most definitely NOT going through the whole first season with all that angst and no-sex policy. In fact, on my end there is already a sweaty, fun sex scene in the works. You guy'll have to wait a bit, but it's there. And after that it's kind of like they go on a sexin'-spree, so yeah. Heh. I'll have to exercise my porn license. Sorry to make you guys wait so long… all I can say is I'm gonna try and make it worth it, so bear with. Also, no, the issues issue? They're gonna have a chat soon. Well actually – well, you'll see. Stop worrying! I'm not completely horrible and sadistic, I swear!

I was slack last week, no promo. But this time there is one so – here!

_Promo: _

_Smiling bruises and flaming eyes – all part of the afterglow of a fight. How is everyone taking the sudden strain? Three days later finds the hunters in the Impala, riding to only-god-knows-where, and we see Sam driving, Sharika silent, Dean sleeping and Lauren sleepless. Until… well, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we? Chequered socks, tentacles, freckle fetishes, March hares and silly, goofy smiles ensue, all in the next chapter of Believing Improbable Things – Into A Grey Sky Morning. _


	29. Into A Grey Sky Morning

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29. Into A Grey Sky Morning

_I'm relieved that it's over. But I guess it's a bittersweet kind of deal._

_-- Drew Brees_

It had been three days since you'd told her. Three days of strained silences. Three days of just caught looks from flaming eyes. Three days of starts and stops of conversations neither of you wanted to continue, three days of the boys giving you questioning looks, three days of self berating, of unjustifiable anger, of sadness, of clenched fists and jaws and nails digging into your palms so hard that you chewed them all away to keep the others from noticing the smiling bruises engraved into your skin.

Three days of realising that without the pain, curling fingers into your palms was not nearly as satisfying, and that biting the fleshy part of your thumb, right at the base, was almost as good, although it was never going to be as inconspicuous.

It was one of those overcast days, with clouds hanging over the horizon like bruises and overlying tension, the threat of rain tinging the whole atmosphere a heavy grey and purple, the heady smell of it permeating the enclosed space of the Impala through the cracked window in the front. It was one of the rare days that Sam was driving, his hands extra careful and tight on the wheel, his eyes sweeping over every inch of the road to be sure not to allow anything to happen to his brother's precious baby, lest he woke up dead. Not that he had to worry at that moment; his brother was in the back with you, taking up far more than his fair share of cramped space, his feet where your legs were supposed to go, his body stylized into a shape that would kill his back when he attempted to get out of it. His head was hanging just off of the edge of the seat, mouth slightly open as he snored in quiet contentment, one arm curled tightly beneath it, the other lying pressed against his side, the blunt fingers just brushing over the leather of the seat and his abdomen with every sway in motion the car underwent. His position looked almost comfortable, compared to yours – you were pressed as far away from his sleeping form as you could get, knees pulled up to your chest with your arms wrapped around them too tight, chin resting on them as you watched him with steady eyes, gaze drifting over his features, taking their time as they never could when he was awake.

Singularly you dissected every one of his features, with the biased speculation of those who are half in that state between sleep, waking and desperation to understand. He's too male to be called merely pretty, too masculine for his good looks to be passed off with that too feminine word, beautiful. He's too rugged to be conventionally handsome, and too rough around the edges to be palmed off as just attractive. Your eyes glide over his face, fixating on each piece, scrutinizing your pull to him, reassessing. The large, broad nose, with its bump right in the middle, from where it had been broken countless times, had healed over just as many. You can still remember the way it felt, mushed against your cheek as he deepened that kiss, angling his head to tangle his tongue more deeply with yours, to taste every corner of your mouth. The tiny sprinklings of nearly invisible freckles across his nose, and the tanned expanse of his high cheekbones, that are only visible in certain lights, and when you're so close his whole face fills your vision. Overly, wonderfully, ridiculously, enviously long lashes fluttering over his sleep-flushed skin as his eyelids flickered in dreaming. Smooth brown eyebrows, the forehead above them bereft of those worry lines he wore every time he was awake, and the tiny wrinkles around his mouth and eyes disappearing in his relaxation, making him look too young and vulnerable. Eyes trail down to where his skin changes from silk smooth to sandpaper satin, over his strong jaw line, with its darkened stubble, over the chin with its barely-there cleft, studying the whorls of his right ear. Then back to his mouth – lips that made your mind glaze over with sticky, cloying lust every time you thought of them, with their plump curves and dips, their full shape begging to be kissed, to be treasured, to be loved. His mouth was the most girlish part of him, outside those devastating eyes. You remember, like the sharpest, most vivid, wonderful dream you'd ever had, those lips pressed against yours, those eyes stabbing into yours, lust driven and hungry, _like yours_. But it wasn't a dream. It had happened, once. You can't help but think it may be the highest point of your existence, which is almost pathetic, in one way, but completely justified, in another.

As always you came to the same conclusion – he was Dean. And you couldn't do a fucking thing about how much you loved him, or why. It all just _was_.

You'd been in this position for four hours now. Severe, brain-melting, eye-crossing boredom was the least of your problems.

Your fingernail-less fingers dug into your ankles again, where they were keeping your feet up on the seat, so as not to disturb the peacefully sleeping Winchester. You felt he definitely hadn't been getting enough lately, and even a few hours snatched in the back of the car would be better than nothing. Your eyes glanced from his form again, to flicker briefly over the black head of hair in front of you, before you shut them forcefully, shutting down your thoughts. You didn't even know where to even start thinking about beginning to talk to her about it – about everything. Since the two of you had been cut off in the middle of the fight, nostrils flaring, eyes wide, cheeks flushed dark, murky colours and telling hues, you hadn't talked since – or at all, really.

Sure, there were the usual, clipped, _'if you wouldn't mind terribly, pass me the machete'_s, the cold, formal, _'you forgot that – insert random item, such as sock, shirt, silver bullet here – Lauren/Sharika'_s, and the always fun, _'you might not want to do that'_ warnings, which were always just that split second too late for some reason. But other than those wonderfully predictable, overlying sweet, underlying sharp and caustic comments, there was zip. Nada. Nothing. The two of you were strangers in too familiar skin again.

You shift as much as you can on the seat, frozen muscles protesting, the cricks and pins and needles and cramps making you clamp down on your tongue so you wouldn't make a sound. Dean wasn't the only sleeping person you needed to be hushed for – she was asleep too; which allowed the atmosphere to be just that infinitesimal bit lighter. It meant that the silence wasn't so loud, that the fact that you both should be saying something to each other, but weren't, wasn't as glaringly obvious. At least if she was unconscious you could think about pretending it was all okay, that everything wasn't as fucked around and awkward as you'd thought it would be.

You hate that it can be like this again – that she was at least partly right. _No, she wasn't – stop fucking lying. _You both hadn't been entirely yourself, back to normal, like you'd wanted to believe. But you felt like maybe, if you just ignored the spectre of John Winchester hovering over all your lives, you could ignore that fact too. That you could pretend everything was fine again, you were best friends again, there was nothing staining the air between you guilty blues and painful blacks and reds, there was no confusion, no ifs, ands or buts. Everything was just _okay_.

But she'd been _right, damnit_. You knew how much it had been fucking hurting her, keeping that secret from you, having to hold it in and act too. Having that hanging over her like the threat of hatred and scarring you over even worse, because you'd lose trust in even John. On one hand you're glad it's out there in the open now, you don't have to worry about it all coming out in a big wave of grotty, furious, accusatory words, because it already has. You're kind of darkly pleased that the waiting is over. _But saying that you didn't care? What – about her? Is that what she meant? Because if she fucking believes that then what is the use of – _

You stop yourself again. These thoughts have been intruding non-stop lately, making you futilely angry all over again, unable to let it out because you were too proud to talk it over with her. _If she's going to be like that, you're going to be like that. Let's not fucking forget who started this – who pushed you – who left you – who never looked back – and now she dares to –_

Sighing, you run your tongue over cracked lips, and grin. _God it hurts_ – and it's funny, because it's all your fault. You're not sure whether you're thinking about your body – which really does ache – or about the situation with Sharika. It's probably both, each is equally troubling to you at this moment… although you can fix one, if you really think you can do it without waking up Dean.

_And yes, you just don't want to think about it anymore. _

Considering the angles, the velocity, the – well, everything – you eye the space over the top of his head, to the roof of the car, the distance between your body and his. Coming to your decision, eyes narrowing, you concentrate. _Careful, careful, steady now_, you stretch one leg out over the top of his head, pointing your foot, holding it still with one hand under your thigh as it stretches luxuriously, and you roll your ankle in that way you've always been told not to. Retract it, and rub the calf with a soft sigh, eyes half closed with the illicit, pleasant pull of muscles. You budge, shift a tiny bit on the seat so you're stable, and just as silently reach the other leg over in the same manner, suspended less than a foot away from his head. You could almost smile it looks so strange, your tiny foot with its grey and black chequered sock circling near that dark gold hair, almost close enough to touch, to kick his ear, to tickle his neck.

And you yawn, surprised at how tired you are. But then, you haven't been sleeping properly either. A guilty conscience can do that to a person, you suppose, eyelids drooping half closed again, this time with lethargy and the warmth enveloping your bones as you yawn a second time and flutter your eyelashes to keep yourself awake. You press your shoulders back against the seat, feeling the smooth, giving pressure of the cushions under leather, pushing back and leaning into it, feeling the roll and yield of the stuffing beneath your muscles, considering the best ways to sleep – or even if you can, or should.

You can't sleep with your cheek pressed against the window because it gives you that ridiculous looking red mark and a crick in your neck too painful to work out – a crick that you just have to leave there until you get used to it, because self massage works not at all, and having someone do it for you out of the three people you trust to actually touch you with anything akin to affection these days – yeah, the chances of that happening are about second to none.

There's really no other way for you to – and then your eyes are drawn back to Dean's figure. _He looks pretty goddamn comfortable…_you think, biting your bottom lip, and now your eyelids are definitely not drooping out of sleepiness…

You snap your eyes away, and they guiltily collide with the back of Sam's head, as though you're worried he may have been reading your thoughts. He's been a right bitch to you lately, and you have to wonder how much he knows about the fight you had with Sharika, if she talked to him about it. Although it's doubtful, and he's probably just reacting to you the way Sharika's acting to everyone, because he doesn't like how he's being treated and he knows it's all your fault, you have to consider how close the two of them have been growing, right under your nose. You liked it – encouraged it even, you really did. But it hurt that you might be losing Sam a little. All you can see of him is his shoulders, his right ear – mostly covered with all that soft-looking, brown hair, the tip of his nose, and his big, long fingered hands on the steering wheel, gripping the rim with carefully relaxed looking hands. You keep your eyes on these parts of Sam as long as you can – but they keep sliding back to Dean, back to that space between his back and the seat – where a cautious woman just might be able to fit, if she spoons her entire body around the man she loves…

You bite the inside of your lip, the raw left corner you've been chewing on for a while now, and consider the consequences. You could just pass it off when everyone woke up, that you were tired and hey, it's his own fault for taking up the entire damn seat. You might even be able to insult him, subtly of course, tell him he's more comfortable than the seat anyway… then again, he may take that as a compliment, or a come on.

But your eyes flick to the black hair again, agitated as March hares on mid-summer asphalt. What would she make of it? What would she do? Would she say something? This is both incentive to do it, and not to do it. The chance that she may speak.

_Who cares what she thinks? You do. No, you don't. You won't. She's – who is she to stop you from doing what you want? Do you want? And she can stop you – she knows now, she can use it against you – she wouldn't – how the hell do you know – _

_Stop rationalising_, you think to yourself. _Just act._

So you do. You let go of your ankles, and reach one hand out to the space behind Dean's neck, balancing your weight on it as you shift sidewards and you're in that space, moving until your equilibrium is relying entirely on your elbow now, and your so close to Dean – so close – dare you touch? If you're really going to go through with this you have no choice, but the conviction it takes to make that first move, to wrap your right hand around his waist, to lean your head onto his shoulder, press yourself flush against him… this would be the first time you've touched him voluntarily, without any previous lead ups or come ons and your palms are sweating, very, very slightly. _Who are you trying to kid?_ You could fill up about three buckets full of nervous perspiration, and you're still not touching him yet.

_Just do it. _

So you do. You lean down into all his strong, hard warmth, wrap yourself around him like a limpet, hold on until there's no Dean and Lauren, just one body, meshed together, with extra parts. You snuggle your nose into his right shoulder, trying to get comfortable, your feet and legs restricted somewhere on the seat behind you, knees tucked into the back of his, one hand clutching his t-shirt, right over his own hand, the other one bent up near the handle, so it can fit properly. You grip all of him tightly, trying to borrow some of the power and purpose and resolve he exudes, even sleeping. Trying to forget, and just _live_ for a little while outside of the encroaching darkness you sense like the clouds on the horizon, trying to stop over-thinking everything that you never wanted to even admit, trying to keep your eyes off the lock of black hair, hanging down over the seat like a tentacle, until your paranoid, slipping mind thinks its watching you. You're tensed, waiting for him to wake up, to say – to _do_ – something, anything. Surely if he was conscious he'd be shoving you off of him like you're some sort of dirt, brushing you off carelessly. But he snores on, quiet, his back rumbling against your chest, sending tingling waves of warmth through every particle of your being. He even seems to move back into you a little, his breathing becoming deeper, smoother, and you have to smile, nose filling with the scents of leather, soap, masculinity, sweat, _Dean_…

_You're spooning Dean_, you think to yourself, feeling a silly, goofy smile spread around your mouth, turning into an all out grin as you stare at the back of the front seat, eyes avoiding the black lock to the right, sure that you're not going to sleep, preparing yourself for more tossing and turning and thinking about the fight.

You fall sound asleep, the smile still on your face, near content.

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AN: I have to say I really quite like this chapter. Even if it's short. And pointless. :P I suppose I was trying to ease myself back into the Lauren/Dean, and this is what happened. I think it's kind of sweet. What happened to you guys last week? It was like all my love had disappeared. I felt bereft. Tell me what you thought of this chapter, and instead of pussyfooting around I'll definitely be posting early.

_Promo: _

_Waking up curled around Dean as though he was a particularly gorgeous teddy bear turns out to be not as un-embarrassing as previously thought. And then the night just keeps getting worse. Tune in for fondling of the other name for 'rooster', beer that just won't stop being a conduit for sexual innuendo, spastic intuition, and an over all feeling of inevitability, in the next chapter of Believing Improbable Things – Desperately Close To A Coffin Of Hope._


	30. Desperately Close To A Coffin Of Hope

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30. Desperately Close To A Coffin Of Hope

_I feel there are two people inside me – me and my intuition. If I go against her, she'll screw me every time, and if I follow her... _

_-- Kim Basinger_

Even though I'd _meant_ to be totally cool with it, waking up draped around Dean, as though he was a large, gorgeous teddy bear, had turned out to be not as un-embarrassing as my sleep-clouded mind had managed to delude itself into believing it would.

I'd woken up, nose squashed against the silken skin of his throat, to the sound of a throaty gasp somewhere above me, blinking and wondering muggily what was going on. I hadn't registered anything much, in that exact moment; my nose was filled with the musky, sweet, lethargic scent of Dean, and my mind was crouched in slumberous darkness, the only thing passing through it being the thought – _mmm, warm… –_ because my body was still mainly curled around his, and the hand lost somewhere around the other side of his waist was some place extremely comfortable. But feeling Dean's body stiffening, I'd awoken enough to push myself slowly above him on one elbow – brow creased in confusion and half-sleep as I'd looked down on him and said, "What's up?"

Not entirely the smartest thing to say, in retrospect.

"Why don't you tell me?" Dean had husked, and then I'd – well, I'd realised.

My eyes had widened, and his eyebrows had risen sharply over his hazel green, lust darkened own, as my grip instinctively tightened. _Oh my god – did it just – did I just feel something twitch?_

_FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I WAS FONDLING HIS COCK!! _

I'd uncurled my body so fast from his, and was against the window, the door jutting into my shoulder blades, that I was surprised I didn't experience whiplash. My mouth opened to speak – all that managed to emit from it was a very, very awkward, hoarse laugh – two clear sounds – ha, and then, as though trying again – _ha_. "HI!" I'd said, in a high, squeaky, far too cheerful voice as he sat up, still watching me, pushing one square hand through his rumpled dark blonde hair. My eyes darted to the front seat, but Sharika and Sam weren't there – out the window was a far too familiar yellow M that I'd startled gabbling about – _'hey, great, McDonalds, mmm-mmm, haven't had any of that in about six hours now, oh how I've missed it'_ – trying to fill up the silence with meaningless, inconsequential words.

My mind was screaming at me to _shut up_, the grin stretched across my face so tight and wide I was sure Dean could see my back molars, and he was just sitting there, still calm, still turned on, eyes burning, smile twitching his mouth, making me want to bite it, his posture relaxed except for the stiff parts of him that I _really_ wanted to think about, and I wanted to _pounce_ on him, lean into all that sluggish intensity and just _lap it up_. Right now.

"Get a grip Lauren – I'd be happy to volunteer," Dean had said, dirty grin flirting with his mouth as he flicked his half-lidded eyes over my chaotic form, and for a second, I'd actually considered it.

And then, my mind caught up with me. And I was saying sorry for feeling him up before I realised it, gabbling on about heat seeking instincts, or something completely ridiculous and far-fetched like that, when Sharika and Sam came back, laden down with brown bags and a cardboard tray full of drinks.

I'd felt jittery and unfulfilled ever since.

We were sitting in a bar now, loud music and loud atmosphere encroaching on my space like a too eager player, the ones I watched posing around the bar, ordering their drinks, angling their heads just so, encouraging all susceptible women in the vicinity to gaze upon their chiselled profiles.

It was funny, in some ways – I mean, what could I do but laugh at them? On the other hand, yeah, I was sitting next to Dean and not finding anything particularly amusing, because although he hadn't flat out _told_ the other two what had happened, he kept _alluding _to it, with this huge smirk on his face like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

The gist of it? I wanted to grab his beer and crack it open on the back of his head.

I now couldn't touch my _own_, for fear of it being compared to certain areas of the elder Winchester's anatomy, let alone take a drink from it – for the same reason. Instead, I was reduced to sitting on the hard wooden bar stool, arms crossed on the rough and sticky surface of the table, in the middle of Sharika and Dean, staring over Sam's shoulder at not-so-sexy players, struggling not to fidget for all I was worth.

I had to _do_ something. I couldn't bear just sitting here anymore, waiting for Dean to come up with more quips like 'pop the cap, tilt your head back and enjoy', 'practicing Lauren?', saying 'looks about the right size', while he eyes me taking a drink from the bottle, and 'take it all in', which was whispered to me while Sharika and Sam were turned away, excusing someone who'd bumped into them.

I'd almost spat _that_ mouthful all over the table.

The thing was, if it were anyone else, I'd find these lines cheesy, sleazy and hilarious, and if the guy kept on, I'd take him down a peg or four. Since it was Dean, I was actually getting _turned_ _on_. There was a permanent flush riding high on my cheekbones, and my body felt swollen and heated all over. _And he hadn't even touched me. _This was possibly the worst part of the whole state of affairs, besides the fact that he seemed to know it. The fact that he seemed to know I wanted him. The fact that he seemed to know I was practically drowning in the desire to grab his hand and take him back to the Impala and finish what I'd started, because _god damnit_ he _deserved_ to be conquered, for me to show him up a little, make him the one out of _his_ depth – and I wasn't really sure how much longer I could stand keeping my hands away from him.

When had I ever been able to stand it?

Eventually I'd given up fighting, given up speaking, given up glaring at him as though he was the world's next Black Plague, because none of the above seemed to have _any effect whatsoever, _and had sunken into the misery of the situation that had brought me to this one. For a second, lying there wrapped around him like a living sweater, feeling his warmth against the front of me, the rhythm of his breathing brushing his muscles against my chest, my nose gathering enough sensory material to last a life time, I'd actually felt _content_, like I was meant to be holding him like that as we woke up. Of course, that had only lasted for a second – immediately after I'd wanted to shoot myself in the head. Or maybe just brain myself against the Impala window. Or maybe – because I was being an imbecile, again. There was no _belonging_. There was no _meant to be. _There was just me, being an idiot, giving in to my impulses, making things worse for myself than they already were, because instead of trying to work out the immediate problems I was facing, I created more. Who knew what information Dean had gathered from my body language, my responses? Who knew what _Sam_ had gathered? What if he found out? What if Sharika _told_ him? Who knew what consensus they'd formed, seeing the two of us like that? Not me, that was for sure. He'd probably tell Dean, because, well, that's what they did, and I mean, I've been getting all these suspicious looks lately, and although Dean seems to just shrug it off and ignore it, it's worrying me more and more because if he finds out he'll leave and I'll never see him again and I love him and I'm being paranoid and I'm going to stop, right now.

I sighed, and scraped some curls away from my face, eyeing my beer determinedly. Just because my hand had slipped down to – er – _grace_ certain parts of him with its presence, _in my sleep_, g_od damnit_, and my fingers had curled around _him_ with something very like possessiveness, didn't mean I should be kept from my drink, right? It didn't mean I should live in this constant state of worry about blushing so dark red I could rival sun dried tomatoes. Although, it had essentially been my fault because I'd given him an opening he could use against me, as I'd been the one to – well, feel him up, really, I didn't enjoy the fact. He wouldn't, and I _couldn't,_ make excuses on account of the fact that I'd been asleep.

It was a sign – an _I-want-to-screw-you-immediately_ kind of sign, and I doubt he let it go anytime soon. He'll keep insinuating until the cows come home. I freaked out, sometimes – in my head – that he'd eventually cotton on to the fact that it wasn't just lust. I had to be more careful; I had to guard myself more. If he ever realized that I loved him he'd crush it, and then he'd leave, and Sam would go with him, and Sharika'd probably leave because I don't think she'll ever forgive me after I'd kept the John thing from her for so long, made her live like that for so long, and what else could be keeping her around now except Sam –

So I decided; if you can't win, succumb to alcohol. First things first… get up the courage to actually _drink_ mine.

Surreptitiously, I glanced at Dean, who was chatting animatedly to Sam about – well, about whose turn it was to do the laundry tomorrow, go figure – then at Sharika, who was thoroughly ignoring me and picking at the label on her beer bottle, and then I looked back down at my beer. I could make it. Just a quick, swoop in, scoop up, and swallow. I only had a mouthful left, and then I could run and escape to the bar on the pretence of getting another one. Although, considering, I kind of _needed_ another one. Or two. Or three. And then maybe five more. I did not want to have to deal with His Most Horrendously Annoying Highness. Is it just me, or does he _live_ to rile me up? It's like he makes everything between us into a battle, which is _supposed_ to be _my_ job. Usually I don't complain that we fight so much, because apart from it being the main way we interact, I love seeing the way passion lights his eyes, as it reminds me of the past times he's kissed me, and looked like that. I love seeing the way his mouth moves and he smirks at me when he scores a hit, signature smug grin showing me his perfect teeth, and exactly what he's thinking. I love seeing the pouty way those lips turn down soon after, also, when I laugh in his face – this is often the most satisfying part of our fights. Of course, when _I_ lose I just go sulk and deal with it. That's not the point. The point is, I mean, what does he think he's going to _get_ out of it, out of fighting with me, teasing me, besides a concussion? Maybe he's a masochist. Taking everything into account, it wouldn't be an entirely unfounded conclusion to make.

Worrying the inside of my lip, my eyes flicked to him again, and then my hand shot out, my fingers slid around the body, and I pulled the beer to my lips so fast it clicked against my teeth. _Ouch. _I slanted my head back and drank the dregs, the lukewarm liquid going down my throat smoothly, if a little too much like spit for comfort, and Ithen slammed the bottle back on to the table top. "I'm done! You guys want another drink, because I do and since I'm finished I'll go get it and then you guys won't have to, you can stay right here and I'll be right back, and everyone wants the same, good, good, okay, be right back!" I babbled, slinging my legs around so I could hop off the stool, grabbing my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans and waving it at them like a flag, and then I started to scamper away. Did I mention my great feeling of liberation at my escape? It practically had me floating off the ground.

"Hey, wait," Sam called, and followed me, saying with an eye-crinkling half smile as he caught up, "You could carry four bottles on your own, but the possibility of dropping them –"

"Increases exponentially?" I interjected, raising an eyebrow and hiding my relief and surprise – he was finally thawing out. Maybe. I hoped. I hated being on the outs with Sam, sometimes it had felt like he was the only friend I had; constantly fighting with Dean, never having a perfect rapport with Sharika, Sam and I had our squabbles but essentially we could talk about anything, at any time – we were each other's agony aunt, pretty much. We provided the emotional support for each other. Over the past few days, seeing as how he'd seemingly ditched me, without a qualm, for Sharika's side of the story _– if he even knew it_ – I was feeling just a little animosity towards him, which he obviously reciprocated. He kept making these small jabs at me, just harmful, poisonous little barbs that grazed the skin, less patience, whereas usually his knew no bounds when it came to me. He was snappy and argumentative and he almost made me cry, twice, though I suspect he doesn't know that. I can't think of any reason why else he'd be doing it, bar the fact he's in love with _her_. This is, you know, great and everything, in its place – like when it doesn't interfere with Sam backing me up instead of her.

I sighed as we made our way through the crush of bodies to the bar, turning my mind from his bitchy attitude towards me since The Fight back to the conversation. _It was easier._ Often we tried to keep our vocabulary out of the gutter and slums, where it usually ended up, and these kind of exchanges, which could have easily been started and ended with a 'I'll help you carry the beers', ensued. Sharika usually joined in with the bantering –_ when she wasn't avoiding me, ignoring me, acting as though I were invisible _– while Dean sat back, pretending he wasn't listening, while he actually tried to understand. Dean was smart, but he wasn't the most _articulate_ man on the planet, and sometimes Sam and I just had the compulsion to use big words. I had this passion for language that on occasion made me feel like an utter nerd. At least when Sam and I commenced with the spouting, I didn't have to feel alone in that. Whenever Dean got fed up, he eventually asked – yeah, okay, _demanded_ – us to speak in English, even though we argued that _we_ _were_, _hello_, and words like 'furuncle', 'maturate' and 'mandied' actually existed, especially when they were used in conjunction with his name. For example, 'Dean is something that a mandied furuncle wouldn't even maturate'. In other words? Dean's something even a doped up boil wouldn't excrete. And some days, this sentence was far too true. Like _today_!

As much as I enjoyed this verbal sparring, I was kind of hoping to avoid an overly-intellectual debate about bar stools, for once, and was thoroughly relieved when Sam said, "Something like that," instead of supplying an alternative.

I fell back on grunting out a non-committal sound, and we ordered the beers, leaning against the bar, bodies loose with relaxation. I folded my arms onto the wood, placing my weight forwards onto my elbows, hands falling just off the edges of the bar, using one hand to tuck a curl behind my ear. A few moments into waiting, trying to ignore my inclinations, I couldn't stand it any longer and shot a glance over my shoulder, back at the table. Dean was engaging Sharika in conversation, and she was answering normally – she spoke normally to everyone, really, except me. She'd been providing me with practically monosyllabic answers all week; usually she waffled when she spoke to me – and I say that with affection. But when she's pissed she is completely direct, she says nothing but that which she needs to. I hated that I was the only one she acted to differently in an obvious way – well, obvious to me – that she could be so normal with the boys. It's like the places have been reversed, considering how the three of them were to each other at the start of our very own Road Trip. It made me so mad that it didn't even seem to affect her, that it just ran off of her like water on a duck's back – after the first initial shock of cold, it just slid off. I didn't know how to fix that, but I _wanted_ to. I wanted to make her _feel_ me; I wanted to make her _see_ me. But no one did. Turning back, I reassured myself. I was happy to be away from my own personal Lucifer, and the tension just being around Sharika still created. _Right?_ But another side of my head argued back; I had to do something about that, about Sharika. I couldn't just leave it like that, I had to –

_Later_.

"Can I buy you a –"

"No, sorry," I cut off the poor guy leaning in on my right, and angled my body even further towards Sam. I didn't like crushing the egos of genuine guys, and he hadn't _looked_ like a scumbag. But really? _So not in the mood._ I should probably change my body language back to schizophrenic, and then they'd stay back.

Sam was raising his eyebrows at me, questioning, with a half smug smile spread on his face; classic Sammy wanting to know what's going on, when he thinks he already does. _Damn_. "It's _nothing_," I said, and smiled at the bartender when he slammed the beers down in front of us without looking. Saved by the prick. "Thank you."

We picked up the beers, two each, and turned back to find our almost-not-quite significant others being hit on, yet again. I sighed, having already trained myself in becoming immune to such scenarios _– they happened so damn often_ – though the violent urge I had – to grab the darts the bar supplied, and start chucking them at the offending woman – hadn't exactly dwindled away just yet. Okay, at all. By my side Sam stiffened, and the evening smiled, waved goodbye and hopped even further down the road to perdition. I could almost find it amusing – Sam was probably mentally doing the same thing as I was – jabbing people with sharp objects. But then I felt bad for him; we were both kind of in the same boat, being in love with people who were too damn attractive for their own good and who we thought didn't love us back. Except that Sharika does love Sam, whereas Dean does not and could never love me and I was just being stupid and even if he did at all it was as a friend. Eyeing Dean, relaxing back in his chair with long limbs sprawled under the table, arms crossed over his chest as he grinned up at the leggy, smiling and _– for once_ – actually _nice _looking brunette talking to him, I felt jealousy writhe and tighten around my stomach like a particularly recalcitrant serpent. _Don't overreact, don't overreact…_I counselled myself speedily. Last time at the pool hall had been bad enough; I'd woken up with a hangover the size of South America, feelings of self disgust rivalling even that, and, the weight of stupidity pressing down on my shoulders like the two of them combined. _What, I was just going to try and fuck someone every time someone cracked on to Dean and I saw it? Every time I got jealous?_ _No. _That was stupid, it was idiotic – even more so than I usually am._ I was stronger than that. I could take it_ – my eyes trailed over the brunette as she touched Dean's shoulder and leaned in, and disobediently green-eyed and homicidal hands clenched by my sides. He looked as though he were inviting her to act this way, as usual – well, almost. There was something there that I couldn't quite put my finger on, something that was really starting to prickle my sinuses. I could only think that he was somehow showing reluctance – but I had no idea how, or why I would think that. There was nothing there, nothing _really_ that gave me that idea. It was just – just a feeling. It was probably just me wishing that that was what I saw – I was just superimposing my own wishes onto him. _Why wouldn't he want to flirt with that gorgeous woman?_

Determined, I shook these feelings off, flicking my eyes back to Sharika and the guy hitting on her. He was hot, hot like _whoa. _Tall, dark and handsome had been invented to describe this guy, poorly. He was smiling down at her, gesturing slightly with one hand, subtly inside her personal space, just enough to make her more aware of him. And she was acting the same to him as she acted to most guys who tried to flirt with her – as though she had no idea what was going on, and was slightly annoyed that the guy wouldn't stop talking to her. She never could connect with the idea that someone was hitting on _her_, unless they were being so obvious that the oil practically coated her skin. And this guy – _hot, hot guy who looked nothing like Dean and therefore didn't interest me at all, damnit! – _was never going to lay it on that thick.

Shaking my head I tacked hurriedly through the bodies around the bar, Sam just behind me, his agitation mixing with mine until it was stinging like a rash on my back, forms moving in front of my eyes and obscuring my view of the table – _why, why couldn't God have made me taller? _– until I was suddenly there, and it was just Sharika and Dean again, looking up at me with unfathomable expressions.

I blinked.

Had the two of them just disappeared or something? Maybe they'd been exorcised; one could hope. In any case, Sharika and Dean were alone again, and I was feeling, dare I say it, _cheerful_. Yet another woman Dean had turned down, in front of me anyways.

Sort of. I mean, I didn't actually _know_ if he'd seen me, or if he'd just gotten rid of her so he could be in Sharika's good graces and it'd get back to me – _had he not noticed the gulf as wide as the Milky Way between the two of us? – _or if he wasn't interested – _likely, really, really likely – _or maybe – I have _got_ to stop thinking. He knew I was in the bar, in his vicinity and would probably look back at him while I was waiting for the drinks. Not only is it a natural inclination for anyone, let alone one for those continuously worried about the safety of their companions, he'd think I'd look back anyway, because of what had happened tonight, and how I couldn't get it off my mind – _because he wouldn't let me. And because I wanted to do it again. Because I wanted him, because_ _I wanted to touch him, I wanted him to touch me, I wanted to – see, see how he's making me think?! Damnit!_

I plonked the drinks down on the table, and sat back in my seat, the first smile that wasn't false this week spreading over my face, despite my slightly pissed off thoughts. Sam sat his ass down across from me, and started sipping from his bottle, placing the other one in front of Sharika, who I turned to, sudden good will and repentance making me say to her, the smile still happy and wide, "What happened with that guy?" _I'll just quietly ignore the girl. Quietly, quietly. _"And that girl?" _Damn. _

Dean just smiled, and turned to Sam, who passed him his beer. He took a sip, eying me over the length of the bottle, and I glared at him, turning back to Shar, who was now poking at slivers of wood picked out of the table top. "Nothing," she told me eventually, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms and avoiding my eyes. I rolled mine, in good humour, trying to stick it out, trying to _try. _I wanted to make it up to her. I wanted to be her friend again. I wanted – well, I'm not sure what _else_ I wanted, except the chance to talk it out with her, let it all out with her. I could do that. I would do that, for her. I'd be a calm, in control adult, and she'd be her usual self, and we could just talk, get it all off our chests, finally understand each other again. I really wanted to do that – being in the same place we'd been at the start, untrusting and short with each other, well, it hurt, and I knew it was kind of my fault which made me guilty and angry at intermittent intervals. I didn't want to be angry at her, or myself, or feel guilty, but I did. I hated it.

Trying to connect with her again, spark some of our natural camaraderie, I leaned towards her and stretched my smile a little wider._ Please, please, can't you even fake normal a little? No. Probably not. You've had enough of that, of trying to fit into my delusional little world, haven't you?_ "Oh, come on. You can't tell me you didn't notice him flirting with you? He was so hot, and so _obvious_," I said, and laughed, taking a quick peek at Dean out of the corner of my eye. _No discernible reaction. Damn. _I guess I'll just have to focus on this conversation, completely. Not that that was a bad thing – it's just – well, I wasn't sure. I guess I just did a lot of things to see how Dean'd react.

"He wasn't flirting with me…"

I laughed again, and this time it was a bit more real. "Uh, yeah, he was."

"He was here as that girl's moral support or something…" Sharika trailed off as I raised an eyebrow at her, at her blatant denial. She was being very _her_ right now, and even in the midst of our fight I couldn't help but find it amusing. A frown pulled down one corner of her mouth as she rallied and asked, "How would you know he was flirting? You weren't even here."

I smiled, seeing the guy again inside my head. How he'd leant in, arm on the back of her chair, the loose openness in his posture, the way he'd looked, smiling down at her like she was the tastiest thing he'd seen all week. I glanced at Sam, knowing he'd noticed it too. How could he not have? He saw the same look in every reflective surface he came near. "It was in the way he was acting, looking at you, holding himself. I mean, didn't you notice the intrusion of the personal space bubble? Or wonder why he was talking so much?" I laughed at the look that appeared on her face, almost taken aback, at me guessing her thoughts so accurately. Of course, she quickly tried to cover this up.

"Not really, I just thought he was bored while the other girl was talking to Dean. That's why he was talking to me that much."

"Yeah, right," I scoffed. A ringlet fell over into my eyes and I looked past it to study Sam, a smile curling the right side of my mouth up smugly. "Sam, was he or was he not flirting shamelessly with our Sharika?"

"How would I know?" he asked swiftly, taking a pull out of his beer, and running a hand through his hair nonchalantly. I bit the inside of my lip to stop myself from sniggering, keeping my gaze unwaveringly on his face, raising my eyebrows, waiting for him to crack. Eventually his curiosity won him over, and he blurted, still trying to sound utterly casual, "So, what did he say to you?"

"Uh…I wasn't really listening," Sharika said, and I knew that if the bar lighting was any better, I'd have been able to see a blush spreading across her cheeks. This was too, too funny. I almost felt as though we were falling back into normalcy. I loved it. We didn't even have to talk any more – fight any more – about the John thing. If we just kept on like this then maybe – okay, maybe I was skipping ahead of myself, you know, _a little_. It was just so nice that we almost seemed to be having a real – _if trivial_ – conversation. _Who was I kidding?_ It was _nice_? It was _brilliant_. "Something about lunch tomorrow?" Sharika said, the tone at the end almost turning it into a question.

"So, what did _you_ say?" I asked, inclining my head further towards her, genuine smile smeared across my face like guilty cookie crumbs. I couldn't help it.

"I said no."

I flicked my gaze at Sam, who looked relieved, then at Dean, who through out this whole conversation had been sitting back, beer in one hand, the other crossed over his chest as he observed us all in odd silence. He raised an eyebrow at me as I met his eyes, and I tore my gaze away, asking, my brain slightly frazzled – _no man has the right to that many pheromones…I should stop drinking right about now, in case I end up doing something stupid, like jumping over the table and devouring him via the pie hole – _"How come? We _are_ allowed to have fun you know," and nudged her slightly with my elbow. _I can't really blame my stupidity on alcohol… it takes more than two damn beers to intoxicate me… _

"Yeah…" Sharika said, a curious tension evident in her voice, and my eyebrows drew downwards as I looked at her, confusion lancing through my senses. _No, it wasn't even that she sounded tense… she just… _My thoughts drifted off as I eyed her. There wasn't anything to give me the idea that she was suddenly, and inexplicably angry – I just had this really strong feeling that she was, and I should back off about ten years, nine months, three weeks, eight days and seven hours, because it was aimed at me.

I resolutely tried to shake this off, but it was impossible, and instead, I decided to spite it. "Well?" I prodded, trying to see how she'd act, what she'd do. Would she explode, like I felt she was about to? Or would she just ignore me… like I hoped? Because if I was right – _how the hell could I be right?_ I was just –

"So, Dean, got anything for the hunt?" Sam abruptly spoke up, obviously noticing the change in Sharika too – her sudden quiet, the way I was eyeing her as though she were a particularly rare bug on a slate. She wasn't even tense, her posture was no different from usual, it was relaxed, bored almost. _What was I –?_

And Dean started speaking and I shrugged it off, concentrating on the job. Well, I tried to. My eyes kept going back to her, how utterly unaffected she looked.

_Why did I think something was going to blow? _

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AN: Sorry this EARLY update was so late lol. I'm such a freak. Enjoy it anyways. And thanks for the love! Kisses to all my new reviewers. :D

_Promo: _

_It's not over 'til it's over. A little Blue Oyster Cult, a lot of paranoia. Ha, I just rhymed… anyway. Is Lauren right about something exploding? How can she be? Tune in on Sunday for weird omens, a different kettle of fish, and crickets that could be the beginning of something no one wants to see. All in chapter 31 of Believing Improbable Things, Go With Your Instincts Along With Some Bad Advice._


	31. Go With Your Instincts

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31. Go With Your Instincts Along With Some Bad Advice

_It's not over 'til it's over._

_-- Yogi Berra_

You sat, fidgeting in the seat of the Impala next to Dean, the weight of the strange atmosphere crushing you to the buttery soft leather. The glass of the window next to you gave off a coldness that you leant in to, rolling your forehead against the slippery condensation as your fingers turned white, gripping the door handle, the cool metal biting into your skin, stabilising you – almost. You'd been trying to use physical sensations all night to fixate you to reality, instead of letting the peculiar foreboding that kept creeping over you like trailing fingers take you away. It was hard, because you couldn't help this feeling that something was up – that something was going to happen.

And you weren't going to like it.

Of course, you were calling yourself seven hundred and eighty two different kinds of brainless, and paranoid, and superstitious, but that didn't make the looming sensation wash away, it actually seemed to intensify it somewhat. You tried to think about it rationally, tried to see you from an objective point of view – and finally concluded that it wasn't anything in particular giving you this idea, more _nothing_ in particular, just everything. Just everything and nothing, and an integral suspicion that you couldn't help but own as a hunter.

Sighing, you let the lyrics of Dean's mullet rock tape wash over you; it was Blue Oyster Cult, telling you not to fear the reaper, which you took as an omen. Everything seemed like an omen to you tonight – the beat Dean drummed on the wheel, just out of sync with the music, the way the lights wavered over Sam's face, putting half of it in shadow, Sharika's stillness as her eyes searched the darkness. The way the neon love heart in the motel's title kept flickering, and finally cut out with a loud twang as soon as the Impala entered the parking lot, the red lights flowing over your knuckles, making it look like your hands were covered in blood.

It was all ridiculous, but you couldn't shake the feeling it was all leading up to something, it was all adding up, and totalling against you. You try and take yourself outside of that, try and poke at it, look at it differently, objectively. _Was_ it just a feeling? Or was it an instinct? Because you trust _instincts_; feelings are a whole different kettle of fish. It felt – well, this would probably be a lot easier if you could figure out where it was even coming from. Could you trust it? Should you adhere to it? It was just so _stupid_ – but it was _pushy_ stupid, and getting on your last nerve. Whatever it was, it was going to include Sharika, and it was going to be bad.

As a direct result of this, you wanted to avoid her like she had the plague. As a direct result of _that_, you wanted to stick to her like glue. You never did like being warned off of something; it inevitably lead you into trouble, because you did whatever it was just to spite everything. Usually the world, or Dean. In this case you'd be spiting yourself, but that wasn't a totally unprecedented occurrence. It just came from inside of you, the need to do that – to just, do something that wasn't expected. To do things your own way. You liked having things done to your specifications and decisions, making your own mistakes, and owning up to them. It made you feel like you had purpose, and power, and choices. It allowed you to take the blame for your actions, and reap the rewards, live your own damn life. Not feel controlled. You wouldn't let people control you – fuck all if you were going to let a dumbass feeling that wasn't even backed up by anything realistic.

Still, you tried to escape it, your own stubborn, challenging stupidity. The part of you that you thought of as cowardly watched as Sharika entered the motel room, completely composed, then turned to the boys where they were slamming the boot shut.

"Take me with you." The words escaped your mouth in a rush, and you feel your left eyebrow twitch as you swallow, widening your eyes at them, watching them share the patented Winchester look with each other, watching them look at you, an identical question in blue-green and hazel-green orbs. "I mean – take me with you, um, to sleep. Can I sleep with you guys tonight?" You're borderline begging, and despise yourself for it – but the instinct is riding you hard now – _stay away – don't – don't – just stay away –_ and you can't help yourself. Fingers tap restlessly against your thigh, a nervous code you can't decipher, and your shoulders are hunching, defensive impulse against the power pushing you towards the concrete, down the road, away from motel room number 13.

_Yeah, everything is a fucking omen tonight. _

"Why?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow at you as he shrugs his duffle onto his shoulder, stuffing the keys to the Impala into his jeans pocket.

_Well, what the hell are you supposed to say to that?_ "Uh…well, you see…" you stutter uselessly for a second, then suck it up and decide to share the truth. _Maybe they'll believe you – or confirm it or … or… what the hell is the opposite of confirm? Disprove it? Maybe? And even if they don't… well… _they can only call you stupid, which you're already doing anyways. And then – well, maybe you'll have found the resolve to do something, either way. "I just have a really bad feeling about going in there. Something awful will happen if I do."

Saying it out loud makes it even more absurd, and you wince mentally as the boys glance at each other again, feeling the apprehension rise up like gorge as you take a step nearer to Sharika's room, just to test the theory._ Why are you being such an idiot?_ _Why are you so worried about entering a room for fuck's sake? _You don't let them see your uncertainty in your certainty, and smile at them cheerily as if to say it's all a joke.

Your eyes say different.

"Lauren, nothing bad will happen. You're –"

"– just being stupid," you and Dean say in unison, and he grins as you roll your eyes. Sometimes he can be such a bitch. But so can you. And you can't deny its fun. Sam hid his own smile, readjusting his duffel on his shoulder as he looks down at you where you stand, stifling your shifting at the Impala's side. Everything _here_ is so normal, everything _is_ normal – what's giving you these dark thoughts? These quelling sensations? It's nothing you can verify, which just makes you more nervous, and more scornful.

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Well, that's what it comes down to." Your token resistance has disappeared, and you pull your shoulders back, standing straighter, ignoring the look Dean gives your breasts at the movement. He's been watching you tonight, and you can't deny that you like it – those little snatches you see out of the corner of your eye, when he's staring down your top, eyeing your mouth, catching your eyes effortlessly with his own, for those fleeting, eternal moments… Okay, more than _like_ it, hell, you'd start stretching and performing yoga if you were in a less single-minded mood. _Okay, you mightn't go that far… but, hell yeah you liked it._ It made you feel good – noticed, and desirable, and a little powerful, maybe. That you can draw his interest like that. You wanted to do it all day, every day, and when you did do it, you just had to revel in it, because you'd go back to angst-ing later, over the fact that he didn't love you, and you'd miss the simple pleasure that having him be aware of you brings. The small amount of _happiness_ it brings. "Okay, well, goodnight then." You shoot a smile their way and stride over to room 13 – and if there's just an extra bit of sway in your hips – _just for the hell of it _– you'll never admit to it.

Walking in you see her, quiet and unobtrusive, carefully not looking your way and you bite your tongue, hard. That threatening feeling is climbing all over you again, stretching in your throat, behind your eyes, wavering in front of you like an actual presence – a spirit, maybe. You remind yourself to sprinkle the rock salt before you sleep, narrowing your eyes. The nervousness has come back along with the feeling, the last few seconds of ease and familiarity with the boys dribbling away as if they'd never been. _Fine. _If she's going to be that way, so will you. Whatever way it is. Silent treatment? Ignoring? You can do that, right? But you don't _want_ to. For a moment tonight it had almost been like the fight was over. She was denying male interest; you were cajoling her into believing it – normal stuff for the two of you. Then she just turns around and acts like someone shoved a stick of dynamite down her pants, and if she acted like anything was up, if she said anything, it was liable to explode.

You wanted to shake a reaction out of her – you wanted to ignore the intuition – you wanted everything to _be_ _okay_, and for you to be wrong, and for it to all disappear, even though you knew how stupid that thought was, because that would never happen. You couldn't help wishing though – and you couldn't help being you. So, pulling off your socks, back to her where you sat on the bed, bent over your foot, you said, "Hey, you can practically hear crickets chirping it's so quiet in here. Talk already," injecting an ease and familiarity you just couldn't feel into your tone. You wondered if she could feel the imperceptible difference swirling around you, like you did around her, and shot a glance over your shoulder where she was lining her shoes up against the wall. You're pulling your jeans off, throwing them on a chair, scratching the two fingers worth of bare skin that shows over your boxers when she said it.

"I have nothing to say to you," she said calmly, underlying tone strained and taut, and you look at her properly now, eyeing her for more than a scared split second, breathing in sharply, once, through your nose. She's shucking her t-shirt, pulling a bigger, looser one over her head for sleeping, body language snapping and popping tightly with the irregular, jerky movements, and your fists clench a little. _Hell, you think you might break a couple of fingers, pressed down as hard as they are. _ She'd never really been like this before – okay, maybe once or twice, but only for a few minutes, and even then she'd shoot this wan little smile at you… There was no little smile now, and all the things she wasn't saying – _leave me alone, back off, not right now, not ever, you fucking bitch, how could you – _they crackled in your head and all rational thoughts left, flowing out of your brain like water down a toilet – one that you flushed with vicious disregard of all penalties.

_So that's how she wanted to play it? This is what some weird feeling had been warning you against all night? _

_Bring it on, bitch. _

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AN: XD Sorry, SORRY!! It had to happen. And, _boy_ is it going to. Also, no, this time the boys will not be walking in all conveniently to break them up. So, wow. Yeah. Get ready for some _ANGST_. _ANGST_ like _WHOA_. ALL ABOARD THE TRAIN TO SAD AND ANGRY AND SPITEFUL AND TRUTH FILLED AND DENIAL AND REPRESSION VILLE!! WHEE!!

Btw, thanks for all the love, as always. I have two weeks to catch up on some writing, and I really need to – I mean, I only have four chapters separating us now, and that's NOT GOOD. (Capitals totally deserved.) So you'll have to wait a week. Next Sunday you'll get a nice long chapter, I promise.

Please don't eat me. _:hides:_

_Promo: _

_The girls finally get all that fantastic, weighted crap out of themselves, and fling it at each other like prime bitches in a mud fight. Okay, maybe a little less with the mud, and more with the hurtful words. And, okay, not ALL of it. Girls have gotta keep some secrets and emotions, back, right? Tune in for the fight that could break their friendship, and spark a whole new 'Sharika Abandoning Her for Another Insurmountable Amount of Time' episode. A lot of fakery, letting loose of inhibitions, and battle metaphors ensue. HURRAH! Come back on Sunday to read Chapter 32 of Believing Improbable Things _–_ All The Things She Said._


	32. All The Things She Said

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32. All The Things She Said

_When I stand before thee at the day's end, thou shalt see my scars and know that I had my wounds and also my healing. _

_-- Rabindranath Tagore_

The women stand like strangers meeting on a battle field; colours, banners, beliefs glaringly obvious in the fluorescent illumination coming from the strip of lighting in the ceiling. Their bodies are taut with emotions, rebelling against the words fighting to be let free of the physical constrains of lips and teeth, and the mental trappings of love and friendship.

Anger wins.

"What's up your ass this time?" the blonde woman asks, faking normal, faking geniality, raising an eyebrow, a corner of her mouth, as though the question isn't serious, as though it doesn't really matter. It does – the fact that she's going so entirely against the omnipresent warning is crippling her breathing – but, she pushes on, stubborn, resilient. As though she doesn't know it's the spark that's about to ignite everything. Of course, what is said by her face and mouth is undermined by darkening gold and green eyes, and an essential tension in her body that she cannot disguise beneath nonchalance. Instinct has been prodding her all night to be careful, and now she's just thrown caution to the wind, _instinct be damned_, as she pretends to be uncaring of consequences.

_So this is when it finally comes to a head,_ she thinks darkly, casualness smeared across her whole being like paint; indifference and disinterest are pastel colours over sharp whites and reds and blacks, and she wonders if anyone else sees emotions in terms of colour – life in terms of portraits. It's not the only way she sees them though; that'd be far too one dimensional to describe the complex webs emotions were – they were also smells, tastes, burns on skin, and that certain prickling on select physical areas. Sharika's likeness tonight is a wild black hole, dark blues and violent reds whirling in and through her orbit, with distinct metallic edges and an underlying smell of smoke and fire and old blood, pangs of earth. Strange that Lauren can almost taste the fury, though she can see it so clearly there might as well be a sign. She gets truly worried for the first time that evening. _It'll either be good in the long run… or completely break us. _

"Why do _you_ care Lauren?" the dark woman asks, lips thinning, becoming a bloodless line in her face, as her nostrils flare slightly, her eyes narrow, lips pull down in something close to a pout. Energy courses through her thin frame, carried through her blood by anger, by frustration at having had to hold it all in. Everything she's felt over these past months has been tainted by the secret she had to hold – the secret that wasn't really a secret – and now she's been pushed beyond her limits. She's ready, just waiting to burst apart at the seams, let loose all the build up, scream the accusations and thickly layered condescending words and judgements. "Oh, _wait_, I already know. You want to poke fun at my rage, instead of quietly enjoying it from the sidelines this time, I suppose."

The blonde woman is taken aback – the words hit hard, like a wrecking ball in the middle of her chest, thumping out all her air. _She – she – what? What?! _Her mind repeats the words like a tape on rewind and fast forward and replay, key words – _poke fun – enjoying – care – why – why – enjoy – _running through over and over, emphasis replaced and redirected until she's so deep inside the duplication of her friend's words she can hardly breathe. _How could she just – she really – enjoy – enjoy – what? _She blinks, before recovering from this shock, and stiffening even further. She can see that the other woman actually believes what she's just said – the dark acceptance in her eyes, her tone, the upward, squaring line of the woman's shoulders, as though some weight has been lifted now she's let fly – it all compounds, heavier and heavier, and that _hurts, _wrecking ball slamming back for another go, crumbling the walls that little bit more, leaving a big crack in her defences, a crack that spread like a spider web, connecting to a million different emotions and thoughts. _Anger. Disappointment. Shock. Betrayal. _What does Sharika think she is – some kind of sick, twisted, sadistic bastard that loves to watch others in pain? Loves to watch _her_ in pain? Sure, for maybe a day or two there, she'd played the idea that maybe she wouldn't let the other woman off – but that had been justified, and she'd still been adjusting. She was going to tell her _eventually._ The way she'd said it – made it seem – well, it just wasn't true or warranted, and made her own irritation spike in challenging answer. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you? Why would you even think that?" she asks, confusion evident, pain not so much. She's hiding it, biting the inside of her mouth to stop more words from falling out, from giving too much away. She doesn't want to give Sharika any more leverage than she already has through years of knowing her, doesn't want to run the risk of letting her jam her opinions and words where they'll really hurt her. She can't let the other woman see how vulnerable she feels, won't allow her to see she's already scored a direct hit in this fight.

And it's only just begun.

"Why would I even think that?" the dark woman asks, incredulous, almost laughing at how ludicrous this question is. It's obvious that the laughing isn't the normal, healthy, happy kind – she's pissed, simple as that – and it's conveyed clearly in the sharp rise of her voice, the red tone in her words. She shakes her head, eyeing the ground while she collects her thoughts, until she arrows her eyes right back into the blonde woman's; the chocolate irises burning with heat, with her ire. Lauren braces herself for the next swing, the next attack from cutting swords and jibes; anticipation sticking in her throat like a bitter pill, one that she has no choice but to take. The other woman's not going to let her off easy today – that much is beyond obvious. "_Use your head_, Lauren. All those months you kept the fact that you knew about John from me – you knew how much it hurt me to keep it from you, you knew how much I suffered – and _don't_ try to deny it," she snaps as the other woman's mouth opens. "I _know_ you did."

This is, of course, true. She has to accede to that, has to admit it – even though it galls her. It's annoying, this obvious stating of facts; facts that she doesn't want to have to face or think over. They're too pungent to take in such large helpings. Still, the blonde woman's jaw tenses against rejections of these words, because they are futile and idiotic. She refuses to be the one to make it worse, to let it go on – she won't – _just let her say what she wants to say – then this can be over_, she thinks to herself continuously, trying to be the mature one. Despite the fact that she essentially started _this_ fight, she doesn't want to continue it, and she doesn't want to escalate it. She doesn't want to end up screaming, or crying, like she's liable to do – the emotions keep rolling over her in relentless waves of fury and hurt, guilt and disillusionment. It's all too much to contain in one body, and she feels like a supernova that is just barely keeping it all under wraps, chaos swirling in and around her like black and red lights through the stale air. She swallows, clenching her fists, nail-less fingers not hard enough against her palm, and she tries to steady herself against the next barrage of words she can see gathering around the other woman's head like a cloud.

"But you decided to keep it to yourself that you knew…" the dark woman says, eyeing her, all her emotions ricocheting off the walls of her failing control. "I don't even know _why_. Probably to protect yourself from it, so you wouldn't have to feel any pain. You didn't think about anyone else, just _yourself_." The blonde woman watches in customary disbelief, discoloured with repugnant truths, and Sharika jerks her head to the side, twitching smile pulling on her lips as she studies the wall, avoiding the green and gold gaze of the other woman. She knows Lauren – _she_ _knows_, this is how the other woman works, repressing everything inside her so she wouldn't have to deal with it. And so she feels at a disadvantage – because the other woman pretty much knows her through and through, has seen her in so many different situations and in ways that it doesn't bear thinking about; but she hardly knows Sharika at all, anymore. She's changed – the coldness shows this – or is it just a mask she's had to grow, one that is solely the blonde woman's fault, for asking it from her in the first place? It wasn't _fair. _Hell, that was how _she_ worked too, repressing, ignoring her issues – _not that she did, she was just saving them for a better time _– but still she realises what Sharika is trying to say, that she doesn't do it at the expense of others, which is what is what she's saying Lauren does, what she's saying hurts her. She's asking whether the woman who had been her best friend, for over seven years, realised – _cared_ how her actions had affected her. Did she realise what it _did_ to her? That's why she has to say these things. She doesn't want to think about it though, consider the other side – Lauren wants to stay angry – _angry is good, angry is a barrier, angry means strong, untouchable_ – and she watches as Sharika's body draws itself up, gathering strength and resolve as she turns her eyes back, her shoulders squaring as she meets those familiar, all too innocent eyes, and she shakes her head slowly, almost whispering the next words, filling them with all her pent up rage. She is only human, after all, and she's _angry –_ no, _furious_, and _hurt_, and _aching_ – and she has to _get it out_. "Whereas _I_ held that secret in me – because _you_ requested it of me. So I did, because I knew it would hurt you, because I knew you would react to the news all 'woe is Lauren', even though it killed me inside to do it. I couldn't even hide this from you – how the secret hung over me, a demanding, ominous, almost _corporeal _presence between us, day and night. And you knew that – and yet you _still_ kept it from me, that you knew. You don't even truly know how it affected me, do you even care? Did my suffering please you? That's what it seems like."

Sharika isn't saying everything, and the blonde woman can see that, in the line of her slim, pushed back shoulders, see that she's holding herself in check still, trying to stop herself from unleashing the whole lot that her emotions contain. She's afraid of what she might say if she genuinely lets go. That doesn't really help though – those words are still_ far enough_.

_Fuck being mature. Fuck not escalating the fight. _

The dark woman has just called her selfish, uncaring, the instigator of all this pain and all this fighting. She has said that she never cared about anyone other than herself, that she wanted the other woman –_ her best-fucking-friend_ – to suffer through it, as though it fucking _pleased_ her to know that she could cause that kind of pain. It feels like someone's just ripped her a brand new, gaping, bleeding wound in her chest; she's a waterfall of horror and righteous indignation and heartache and wrath and this _sick-to-the-stomach_ feeling. Of course she knew the secret – she hadn't told Sharika so they could _both_ avoid this kind of thing, _this_ particular pain. Wasn't it _worse_? For everything to be out in the open, for it to hang over them _both_? Wouldn't it be better if she just – just had it sorted out, before she had to inflict more pain on the other woman? She'd been thinking about both of them, always. And the other woman had accused _her_ of being the selfish one? When _she_ wasn't even considering the blonde woman's side of the story? That was the most hypocritical thing she'd heard in a long, long time.

Sharika actually thinks that she enjoyed having this thing between them? Watching the walls of their being crumble a little more each day, their smiles shine a little less brightly as the confusion and pain of these secrets blocked out sensibility? It aches somewhere she won't think of, that the woman she considers her closest friend could think these things of her – it just proves the theory; no one knows her. No one cares to get close enough to do so. No one. _What the hell was wrong with her? How could she fucking say things like that, and mean them? How could she think them in the first place? How fucking dare she accuse her of such twisted things – such fucked up shit like – fuck, fuck, fuck! Why would she – why would she feel like she had to say shit like that to her? It's – it's – no, no, it's not true, she was never – she could never – no, no, NO!_

At least if she'd been given the time to have it all figured out before they had to talk about it, then they could have just had it out like _rational_ adults – they could have – but, no, instead, this had happened. This messy, out-of-control shedding of the emotions like snake skin, without resolving them, without examining them properly and accurately for what they really were. This loud, irrational spewing of hurtful words and half-truths and too-true-too-hurtful truths, and the fucked up lies that came with it, to appease the scars. If they'd just _thought_ for a while _– given it time_ –

"Yeah, I was right," she laughs up at the ceiling, a breathless, huffing sound full of derision – at herself, Sharika, the world. Her body shakes with a sense of controlled turmoil that is reigning inside her, and fists clench and unclench by her side, spasms twitching her fingers, fire rushing through her veins like _power_, like _invincibility_. She can do – _say_ – anything – she feels – she _feels_. Now that the other woman has started it – well, she's impervious. It's not her fault now, whatever happens. _It's not her fault._ "There _is_ something wrong with you. You're delusional – you don't know me at _all_, if that's what you think."

"_Me?! Me, the delusional one?!_ You're freaking _kidding_ _me_, right?!" Tense, locked jaw, shoulders, muscles – angry lines of passion and declaration. She's biting down now, gathering the rage like shivering butterflies to her hands.

The blonde woman responds in kind, mouth unheeding of warnings, emotions overriding caution, rioting against it all – everything – the whole, damn, fucking scenario. _How dare she – how could she – _"Yes, _you_. God, you actually think I fucking _enjoyed_ carrying that secret around inside of me – not telling you?"

"Oh really? I'm not the one going around pretending that my problems don't exist, and acting as if they've just disappeared, until I finally fool myself into believing they have! If you didn't _'enjoy it'_ – _then why didn't you tell me?!_" The dark woman glares straight into fiery gold and green eyes, eyes narrowing, cheeks growing ever darker with anger as her tense upper body tries to breathe through the crushing weight of rage. Even though she's mad the hurt and confusion are evident, shining through dimly, beneath the fire, feeding it. And then there's almost a sense, on the tip of the blonde woman's tongue, as though the other feels as if she's been betrayed, or fooled all along. It's coming off of her in tendrils of sadness and disillusionment, a sensation like she's decided she can't trust the blonde woman anymore, and Lauren realises – that what she thought of Sharika, was in fact returned wholeheartedly; this mistrust and fear and treachery.

Sharika blinks, narrows her eyes, wonders sharply, for a second – is it just her imagination, or are the other woman's eyes starting to glow? Dismisses it quickly, focuses, draws herself up ever taller.

"I never pretended that they didn't exist! I was trying to fucking _sort_ _them_ _out_, so _this_ wouldn't happen!" She stabs her finger at the air, sweeps her hands wide to indicate the surroundings, their taut bodies, practically shivering with the tension – the emotions that gripped them in tight, ruinous holds. The whole situation has an overlying feel of déjà vu in it; if she blinks will it revert to the other motel room, will the boys come in, save her? Will they rescue her from this pain? _No – no – she has to – she's been putting it off too long – but – _"How could I pretend? Huh? _How_? With everything hanging between us – I could have fucking _drowned_ a million times over in all our shit."

"You couldn't _'sort them out'_ with me knowing?" the dark woman scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest – an action she refuses to see as defensive. "I would have _helped_ you – or backed off, if you wanted me to. And _please_, for god's sake, save me the 'poor Lauren' drama. I've been with you since we were adolescents; I know how your head works. You just shove your problems into the back of your mind, telling yourself that it'll all eventually go away, like a _child_ – which is funny, considering how much you hate being treated like one."

"Oh, yes, you know all about me don't you? You know how my head works, you know _everything_ – because you're always there for me. Right? Isn't that the angle you're trying to feed me? We could have helped each other, we could have been there for each other –" she says, affecting a higher falsetto, an untruthful mask that is full of scorn and contempt of everything the other woman is feeling, saying, although honestly it strikes hard under her heart, every harsh word like a blow. _She does not act like a fucking child! _Ignoring her issues – ha! There the other woman goes again, being a fucking hypocrite, saying all these things like they're established fact, not just her perceptions – her _biased_ perceptions. "– where the hell were you last year?" she spits, wanting to cross her own arms, but resisting. Instead she grips the denim by her sides, leaning forwards, anger sparking off of her as though she is a fire – maybe not the fire – maybe the ashes. _Yes_, that's how she feels. _Consumed. _"You abandoned _me_ – let's not forget that little fact."

Sharika laughs loudly, the darkened sounds cracking against the ceiling, trapped, body shaking with the force of it, and she clutches her side as the sardonic tide of amusement fades away. "You're really playing your part, aren't you? _I was away to save your life – _I thought about you _every single day – _I couldn't ever forget you. It wasn't even my fault – you speak of me abandoning you, but that was just physically. I was always there with you mentally, I would have come back instantly to you as you soon as it was safe, or when you needed me." She shakes her head, smiling once more, the pain evident behind in the thin lips, the brown eyes, the stiff contours of her body that seem to vibrate. "You gotta love irony though – the real truth is you're the one who abandoned me. You're the one who did it – and your one was worse, because you left me emotionally. No matter what I did I couldn't get back in."

"You couldn't get back in? _You never fucking tried._ You speak of me abandoning you, emotionally? You say you would have come back if I needed you?" at that the blonde woman just has to laugh, the curls writhing around her shoulders like snakes as she throws her head back, in cruel parody of the other woman's acts. She blinks tears back at the ceiling as she remembers those days, where she was incapable of movement, of any sort of action but breathing as she laid in the grotty motel bed, waiting for her best friend to come back – before she finally realised she was never going to. This last thought stabilises her, because perhaps for the last few months she _has_ been deluding herself – deluding herself that her best friend _had_ come back to her. And now she's realised, yet again, just how wrong she was. She slowly lowers her head, piercing the other woman's dark eyes with her own, blazing ones. "When you left me – well, it wasn't _just physical_, sweetheart. You abandoned me in every fucking way imaginable. I did need you – you weren't there. How was I supposed to reach you? And you know what's worse? Now you don't even care. This thing – this barrier between us – well, it's not just John, it's everything. Not _just _me, and my unfailing ability to disregard every other person in my life, and not think of them at all, as you've so nicely put it."

"_You think I wanted it, do you?! Why the hell do you think I kept it to myself? Kept making myself look like the bad guy, even though I hated it? Hated me?_ _You_ _asked_ _me_ _to_, that's why! Don't conveniently _forget_ that," the dark woman spits, then drags in a deep breath to continue, a nerve in her cheek twitching. "And for _god's sake_, stop being so over-dramatic, and thinking you're alone in this world! You're _not_," she says, and sighs, tries to compose herself. She shakes her head, tears stinging the back of her eyelids as she struggles, trying not to let her sadness show. The fact that the other woman never relies on her – never _trusts_ her enough to do so – never _did – _well, it still hurts. "The truth is, if you keep thinking that way, continue keeping people at a distance –" ­–_ continue keeping her at a distance –_ "– eventually they will get tired of trying to break through your barriers, and move on. And then you'll truly be left alone."

A stunned silence filters through the room. A total opposite of her previous feeling has seized the blonde woman – instead of her barely containing a numerous, explosive, and unpredictable concoction of emotions, she is numb.

_Completely numb. _

_How dare she say – how could she just –_ but thoughts scatter away from the grasping fingers of her mind also; she is incapable of keeping any close enough to turn into words, into an argument. These words are the ones that perhaps hurt the most this night. The ones that lacerate her control, her pride, her every emotion. This is her innermost, most deep rooted fear; and the other woman is flaunting it, parading it like its trivial, nothing, something simple and easy and appeaseable. Something that can be gotten over – not something that stains her very being, that scares her more than any demon, any weapon, any spirit had ever come close to. She's saying it like it's stupid, almost. Like it's ridiculous for Lauren to feel this way, like her whole fucking life doesn't back up this claim –_ everyone leaves her, no matter what_ – in every possible way – like the dark woman herself hadn't contributed to this black worm at her core. She's crumbling, breaking, dying at how the person she thought was her _best-fucking-friend _– who was supposed to _know_ her, in and out – can't even _pretend_ to understand, can't even _try_ to –

But she'd never give the other woman the satisfaction – not now. Not _ever_.

Scraping together vestiges of courage, of fight, she comes away with only sarcastic words, an unrecognisable lilt in her voice as she crosses her arms, shakes her head, pastes a smile on lips that have bleeding insides. "Yes, because that's how it works," she rallies, swallowing the tears lodged in her throat, piling up high until they're tapping at the back of her teeth, sobs daring her to free them – _pride be damned – let the other woman see what's she done_. But instead, she just lets out more words, thick with everything but what she truly feels. "I'll just block everyone off, hide behind my '_barrier'_ – and _that's_ why they leave me. Not because they're mindless John Winchester clones who can't think for themselves. Right, right." She nods, smiles at the filthy, scuffed grey carpet as though it's teaching her a valuable lesson. She looks up slowly, eyes clear and unwavering, one eyebrow slightly raised. She's gotten good at slipping the masks on. "I'm just supposed to accept that, aren't I? If what you did was truly for me, you would have said something. _Anything_. You wouldn't have just… left." Her words are quiet, and she stares straight at the dark woman, pale face impassive. Two red patches fly like flags on her cheeks, and the sparkle has gone from her eyes – all combat, all fire, all emotion is concealed so deeply it's as if she never owned any – as though the scornful, pained woman from earlier never existed.

"_Please_, John Winchester clone – would you rather have John go, 'I don't give a shit, let her die, do whatever you want?'," Sharika asks of her, resolve wavering in face of this new tactic – but it's an imperceptible change, only a slight shift in her voice, a tiny alter in posture giving evidence of this. She's still angry – beyond angry. But she's trying to restrain it, a little.

"I would rather you consulted me about it. I'm an adult – I can take care of myself. I should be able to have a hand in every decision affecting my future – especially something like that."

"Then stop acting like a child!"

"I would if everyone would stop treating me like one!"

"We _would_ if you stopped acting like one!"

"_You_ left _me_," Lauren says, with simple finality, everything about her still motionless, lifeless. "That's what it comes down to. It's your fault that we're like this. Every way I've acted has been cause and effect relating straight back to that core issue."

"I left to _save you_," the dark woman insists, repeating this one line as though it is everything, the whole deal, exasperated, "That demon _killed my parents_, I wasn't going to take any chances with another person I love. And there you go again – pretending that the other issues don't exist, so you can fit into your own delusional world. Your troubles won't go away if you just keep it in the back of your mind. That's what _a child_ would think. Adults don't repress their emotions, and think that they'll magically disappear."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd stop trying to pawn your amateur psychobabble off on me; you have no idea what or how I think," the blonde woman snaps, finally tearing free of the mask, and narrowing eyes at Sharika, emotions goading her again._ Child? CHILD? I'LL SHOW YOU A FUCKING CHILD, YOU BITCH._ "You don't know me. And I don't know _you_. So what the hell is the point of this? More pain? Fuck that." She spins around and strides to the door, bare feet digging into the carpet with each step, toes gripping the grey fibres, trying to send her strength and solidity through physical orientation. "I'll see you in the morning," she says, opening the door wide, feeling the wind from the parking lot skitter over her exposed flesh, sharp fingers of cold trailing over her skin. "Then again, maybe I won't. You're good at leaving without telling anybody, aren't you?"

She slams the door shut, walking away, hearing the other woman's parting shots without having them register in her head, as she's blocking them, stopping them from hurting her anymore.

She manages to make her way across the parking lot, heedless of glass and the gravel that cuts into her feet relentless, until she's at room number 11, and knocks on the door, shivering as the cold bites her bare legs, her midriff, her arms. It swings open, and the oldest boy is standing there, looking down at her with that familiar, mockingly questioning look in his eyes, a smile pulling at his perfect mouth.

"I _told_ you something awful was going to happen," she says, before shoving her way past his arms, running into the bathroom and breaking.

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AN: First things first - have I ever mentioned that I hate fanfiction sometimes? Little bitch wouldn't let me update all ofn yesterday. SORRY!! But hey - WHEE!! FINALLY! Chapter 32!! Awesome! Know what else is awesome? I have 220 reviews. _:stunned:_ That's amazing. And the number of hits: 16713. I just feel so touched by all the love and support you guys send every week. Okay, and now I'm gonna stop spamming; but you get it.

_Promo: _

_Wow. Yeah. Dean and Lauren. Actually talking, and sharing, and Lauren revealing her emotions? Are you serious? Yes. Can I make it believable? You guy's'll have to decide. Next Sunday. :P Tune in for golden biceps, wishes for hacked up lungs, and the replacement for a stiff upper lip – a dribbly one. You'll see. All in the next chapter of Believing Improbable Things – Doesn't Want To Read The Message Here. _


	33. Doesn’t Want To Read The Message Here

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33. Doesn't Want To Read The Message Here

_To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal._

_-- C.S. Lewis_

I forced my way past Dean's arms, ducking under a golden bicep and managing to make it into the bathroom, and to lock the door before I collapsed onto the tiles and started sobbing – okay, yeah, scrap that, _howling – _all over my knees. It was cold on the tiles, the smooth surface numbing the skin under my shorts, and the rest of my thighs that lay against them as I clutched my shins, snot and tears seeming to pour out of every possible orifice on my face. There was a burning in my throat, and it felt like cement blocks had been wedged in there behind my tongue, as well as on top of my chest. I tried valiantly to stifle the sounds emitting from my mouth against my skin – but I don't think it was working out all that well.

I wasn't feeling all that great, I mean, hello – _how dare she – how could she – _Sharika and I – and then – I had to stop crying – I had to – _had to_ – but I couldn't. It all kept dribbling out of me like emotional discharge, and I wanted to stuff toilet paper up my nose and into my eye sockets, to dry up all the wet.

"Lauren?" Sam and Dean's voices, and a tentative knock came from the bathroom door, after there was a second of them trying to open it, the handle turning side to side, rattling in its place. For a metaphorically charged moment, I saw myself as the doorknob; acted upon by a violent outside force who didn't really care about the effect it had on me – and – and there I went again, being a _complete_ idiot, in yet another way. What kind of fool readily instigates a fight like that – goads a furious party into it, challenges them to say more and more hurtful things at every turn? Only someone _totally fucked in the skull_, like I obviously was.

I pressed my forehead harder against my knees, rolling it across the ridges of bone to try and compound on and appease the pain, trying to avoid looking at the door. It wouldn't keep them out for long if they didn't want it to – but then, why would they want to come in here? _I'm a mess – they wouldn't want to have to deal – he wouldn't – and besides – I couldn't let the boys know – let them see – see me vulnerable – and – because – and – _

"Who the fuck else would it be?" I managed to sob out, gripping my legs even tighter as waves of emotion rolled over me, and I kept seeing _that_ _look_ on her face – that scornful, angry, uncaring look as she eyed me. I'd felt the lowest of the lowest scum bags – I'd felt like there were no tomorrow – as though the world was ending – as though someone I loved had died. And maybe, in some way, all three _had_ occurred.

I mean seriously, what was keeping her here _now_? That _bitch_ – _that fucking __bitch__ –_ she doesn't even think I care about her _at all – I mean, what the fuck –_ she thinks that I only care for myself, which is the most stupid, _stupid_ thing I have ever heard in my life. _I _act like a child? _I _repress _my_ feelings? _I _abandoned _her_?_ Who the fuck_ does she think she's _fooling_?

She's transferring all her issues onto me; not only being a hypocrite to me, but a hypocrite to _the_ _boys_, who she'd accused of doing the same thing – how long ago? She repressed _her_ issues too – all the time, hid them, didn't share them. Not even with me – not even – and now she's saying _I _do it? _I fucking do it?_ And she says it as though I'm the _only_ one? _Fucking – how could she just_ – for fuck's sake, it was almost funny, if I tried to see it like that. How much she was denying her own issues and just pawning them off, and stringing them onto me – _fucking bitch – how could she just – I hate her – hate her – she –_

"What happened?" came Sam's quiet, concerned, reassuring voice through the wood, and if anything, I started crying harder. If that was possible. Maybe I'd hack up my lungs soon, and then I'd see if they really _were_ squashed flat like pancakes, like they felt in my chest, pressing up against my heart and sternum as though to tell me just how bad it all was. _My body was trying to drown and suffocate itself. _Wipe a sleeve across my nose, sniff in deep and hard, get a throat full of snot. _Just fucking great. See what she does to me? I should've just let myself drown._

How could I tell them – that the reason I was being this way – I was being _such_ _a fucking girl_ – was because – because I'd had a fight with Sharika? They'd probably laugh at me – how could they possibly understand – _understand the trauma of it? How beyond horrible and breaking and wrong and fucked up and true and not true and misunderstood and confused and shitty it all was? _Everything we'd said to each other, felt, thought, did, was twisted until_ – it was just – it was so –_

"Had – had a fight," big, deep, shuddery breaths that help not at all. "Messy – _fucked up _– she's leaving – I just _know_ it –"

"What?" It's Sam again. Some of his panic licks under the door to bite my ankles, and I pull myself in closer to the bath and against the wall, trying to squash myself into a contained, controlled space, get away from that like I was trying to escape from my own emotions. _Physical state reflects, affects mental state._ And I did not want to have to deal with any more tonight – I wanted to cry – die – lie _down_ – I wanted to give in and have someone _take the pain away _– but I was being made to feel it, feel it _all_, everything I'd brushed away and tried to forget since she'd come back into my life, every little word and action and look jumbling together to run across my mind in streams of piercing, technicolour video. He's not talking to me now, and he's trying to be quiet, but I can still hear the murmur of his deep voice through the door, hurting and pissing me off that little bit more I didn't think I was capable of. _He – he's going too – he cares about her more than me – he – he doesn't even – Sam – why don't you love me? You're doing just what she said – you're leaving me – what's worse is you're leaving me for __her__ – how could he –? _"Dean, you stay here. I'll go check in on Sharika, make sure she's not going to do anything she'll regret."

"What, man?! You can't just _leave_ me here." I could practically see Dean's horrified face in my head, hazel green eyes wide and screaming at his brother, '_no fucking way, Sam. No fucking way.'_ I could see his stiff shoulders, the gesturing hands. I could smell the anxiousness, as well as his knowledge that no matter what he said, Sam was going to leave him to deal with it – with me. To struggle through, hopeless in such scenarios. Winchester men were never good with tears – in any kind of situation. It was all as distinct as ozone, a sharp, familiar, distasteful odour that I was far too used to. "What am _I _supposed to do? If you couldn't tell she's fucking _crying_ in there, Sam. I can't _do_ tears –"

"I don't know Dean! It's _Lauren_! Do something! Hell, do anything! Just _fix_ it."

And then the other door was slamming, and I knew Sammy had deserted me too.

000

It took Dean approximately two minutes and thirty six seconds to get annoyed enough to pick the lock on the door; he couldn't be bothered trying to 'coax' me out of the bathroom anymore. If _'Lauren, get the hell out of there or I swear I'll fucking kick this door in'_ can be seen as coaxing. Of course he'd only been reduced to that stage, after he'd gotten exasperated, trying to hear his own _'um-ing'_, _'uh-ing'_, and muttered _'fucking Sam'_s, as well as the unsure _'can I get you anything?'_s, above my snivelling, and sobbing and such.

It was fucking pathetic and made me feel like even more of a _loser-head-case-fucked-up-cry-baby_ – that he could hear me like this – see me like this – had to deal with it. _I just_ – I couldn't bear the fact he was seeing me vulnerable and crappy and with bloodshot eyes and a dribbly upper lip and tears and –_ why couldn't he fucking leave me alone? I could have – I could have just –_

I heard the click of the lock and raised my too-heavy head, resigned. He was standing in the doorway, eyes steady on me, tick in his cheek leaping with the tension contained in his jaw. He looked lost, and a little pissed off, body tense and drawn up, showing me just how reluctant and unsure and uncomfortable he was. He looked hesitant, one hand twitching against his thigh, the other wrapped tight around the doorknob, feet still on the divide of carpet to tile. He looked like he'd been bulldozed by PMS-ing camels, hair sticking up where he'd run his fingers through it, reddening skin on his jaw line where he'd clenched too hard. He looked like the best damn thing I'd ever seen.

Before I knew it my body had launched itself off the floor, and my face was rubbing all over the front of his soft, well-worn black shirt, my arms were wrapping around his waist, clutching the material against his back and leaning into his chest as though he was the only thing in the world able to stabilise me. Considering – well, he very well might be. I had to touch him – I needed him right now, and just – just holding him I felt some sort of equilibrium I'd been missing slip into place, right me. I felt stupid that I needed this, ridiculous and clingy and obvious – but I also felt safe and secure and – and just – _it was Dean_.

He staggered back from the doorway, me still clinging to him, shock written on every inch of his body where it stood, stiff inside the circle of my arms. I barely noticed, crying away, regardless. I'd probably beat myself up later for showing him such weakness, needing to stick to him like this, _giving_ _so fucking much away_ – but for now my mind was numb and cold and sloshing, half frozen water, and he was warm and solid, and I loved him, and I needed him to make it better. No one else could make it better, if anyone could at all.

But I couldn't just keep myself attached to him _like an extra-fucking-limb_ – I had to let him go, push him away, tell him I was fine _– fine and dandy, guv'ner_ – I had to just – _had to_ – maybe I can borrow the Impala and go for a drive and – or maybe there's another car in the parking lot I can hotwire – _escape_ – because there was no fucking way in hell that Dean'd let me borrow his baby in my state – _get away_ – I could run – and go and go for miles – _and no one would care_ – _no one would stop me_ – I could just keep going 'til the fuel runs out and then I could hitchhike – _in my Daffy Duck boxers? – well more guys might _– and I could just – maybe Pastor Jim would let me – for a while – I could – but Dean – I didn't want to _– would he_ –

_I was right – I was speaking the truth – and so was she. _

My body stiffened against his, spine straining so tight against my skin I was afraid vertebrae would pop out all over the floor and roll like dice and then – _no, no – fuck – _my eyes squeezed tightly shut, pressing down so I saw sparkles behind my eyes – purple and gold and spangly – and – _no – no – but she – she was – no, I was – and she – it's not – it wasn't – no – just – _

_NO! No, no, no. I was not going to see HER side of it, when she refused to so much as spend half a split second considering mine. She never understands – ever. No matter what I say, it doesn't count; she always has to push her way because she always thinks she is right. She of the 'undeniable logic'. She who doesn't care what other people fucking think or feel; if it doesn't coincide with what she wants, it's irrelevant or stupid or over dramatic –_

"Lauren…you're getting snot on my t-shirt."

I laughed through the tears – _stupid ass – I love you – _and my fingers tightened further on his back, ends scratching slightly against his muscles, material soft and warm and running through my palms; I focused on that so I wouldn't start thinking about how his thighs were pressed against mine, one almost in between so I could stand closer. Also wasn't thinking about the musky-familiar, _Dean _scent in my nostrils. Wasn't thinking about how he'd taste, if I kissed him with my tastebuds shot all to hell and coated with god-didn't-even-want-to-know. Wouldn't think about his left hipbone jutting into my stomach, and how my breasts were pushing against his firm chest and his hands were coming around to lay awkwardly on my back, huge, calloused hands – _hands_ – _Dean's_ hands –

Yeah, _wasn't_ thinking about that.

I turned my head to the side, smoothing my cheek up and down against his breastbone, avoiding the wet patch, listening to his heart beat. Didn't think about all the smooth, toned, tanned skin underneath, didn't think about how he might be able to make me not think about what else I didn't want to think about, didn't start thinking about taking his clothes off and kissing my way down his body, didn't start thinking about the art of fucking away the pain that worked not at all but felt _holy-fucking-mind-blowing_ for a while at least, didn't start thinking about any of that. No, indeed.

I just kept crying on, instead.

I tried, of course I did, to tell him I was fine, tried so fucking hard to stop crying that I should've got a medal. I stretched the hugest fucking smile you could ever get on a face across my cheeks – gave a whole new definition to that from ear to ear thing, in the process, I'm sure – told him in no uncertain terms as I pushed back a little and looked into his eyes that, "I'm fine now. You can, like, go." My hands were even struggling to let go of his shirt, were twitching as the fingers tried to unclutch and let go of him, I was stepping back, I was –

"Yeah? Then how come you're still crying?"

And I laid my head back on his chest, and stopped trying.

At least it wasn't fast and thick and panting anymore; it was slow and insidious and classified more as _weeping_ – the drippy, sniffling kind, with a headache encroaching up behind it, creeping and trying to pass itself off as just passing through the neighbourhood.

"So…are you going to tell me what happened?" Dean's voice is thick with his normal sarcasm; a cover up for how obviously uncomfortable he was; all those taut, tensed muscles lying against mine, and I could _feel_ it, I could feel it all through my arms and stomach and back and side – everywhere he touched me he was clenched and waiting for me to back off so he could breathe properly again. Yeah, I'd be freaked out having me sprawled all over me too. _She – how could she – fuck –_

_No, no I am not going to tell you about it. _

"We fought 'cause she's a bitch who doesn't listen or understand and she hates me and she's leaving and I'd don't care 'cause I hate her and she hates me and just because she thinks that I'm selfish and I don't care –" – _breathe, brief-flapping-one-armed-gesture at the ceiling_ – "– which is obviously stupid and ridiculous and hypocritical and what the fuck does she mean I repress my issues and ignore them and pretend they're gone because I'm not that stupid and even if I did do it which I don't I'm not the only one she fucking does it too and how dare she dump all –" – _breathe, head-butt his shoulder a little, screw eyes shut even tighter_ – "– that shit on me she left in the first place and I hate her and she's leaving and I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I care, I don't want her to leave Dean don't let her leave me again how could she and she said I abandoned her what the fuck and –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean said, put his hands on my shoulders and tried to push me away a little so he could look into my face. _Ha, not fucking happening. _I just clutched tighter. "Okay, what? Mind translating that into English, there, Gerbil Girl?"

_She's leaving me alone again – she's abandoning me – no, please – need her – I can't live without her, Dean, Dean help me – help me – you won't leave me too, will you – she said you would – she said – no, no, I can't say that. She said – and then you truly will be left alone. I had to –_ _had to distance myself_ – _what she'd said – what Sharika had said _– I bit my lip, hard, choking softly, knowing I'd completely lose it if he left me too. I was needy and strung out and sticking to him like glue, and I knew that if he went, I would be completely bereft and – _I hate how fucking weak I am – I hate_ – I hate _everyone_. After Sharika – after Sam – but, he would, wouldn't he? Dean would leave me too – Sam left me for her – and Dean will always follow Sam, will always take care of Sam – _and if there's even the slimmest fucking possibility – I had to let him go – I had to –_

My head grappled valiantly with my thoughts, trying to get them into some resemblance of linear order, working furiously to piece together my emotions as they scattered all over the contours and hills and valleys of my brain. All it was able to manage was mangled, scrambled-egg sentences and random, desperate and clawing feelings. Instead of blurting out any of this inner turmoil, my mouth let loose with, "She told me I repress my issues; I mean, what the hell?" I was speaking to his left nipple, seeking confirmation that I was right, and she was wrong; it was also a test – I was sussing him out – trying to build myself up so that when he did go – I wanted to know now what side he was on. I needed him to tell me that all the fucked around thoughts I was having about Sharika even having a remote possibility of being the tiniest bit right on any subject brought up in the fight – it was all just a side effect of emotional trauma, or something. I just – I had to know. Of course, instead of just asking, I was trying to act as though I really _were_ indignant about that and not actually completely denying the idea because somewhere in me I knew it might damn well be true. What else did you call my _'put it away to deal with later'_ philosophy? Because I never actually _did_ end up making the time to deal with it; I always just let it fester away like an open wound with bandaids stuck over it, expecting it to heal in time without any external help. But that didn't mean she was right – that I repressed them _purposefully_, that I _ignored_ them, didn't _care_ about them, didn't – it doesn't mean she has to _say_ it, and I didn't have good reasons – _still_ have good reasons to do it.

At the silence I received I peeked up at him, angling my head back, curls brushing messily into my face, sticking to tear tracks, prickling my nose. He shifted his eyes away guiltily for a second, and I raised my eyebrows at him when he glanced back down at me, mouth pulled down in one corner as though he were chewing on the inside, body still unyielding between my arms and under my hands. From here I could see the individual stubble on his jaw. If I leant up a couple of inches, stood on my tiptoes, I could probably scrape my tongue along it. I could trace the line of his jaw and then lick into his mouth, effectively ending all the talking, ending all the uncomfortable discussions over what had happened and why. I could – put this on hold for a while, because this _so_ wasn't the time, my head was _completely_ – and then my train of thought derailed; Dean was moving in my arms, shifting his weight from foot to foot almost unnoticeably. Okay, _what_ was he thinking? What was he…? He was quiet, almost as if he were waiting for me to say something else. When I didn't and just kept looking up at him all intensely, waiting for him to answer and deny her statement – _just on principle and to make me fucking feel better and just – _he said, simply, as though it were obvious, "You _do_ repress your issues."

I jerked my head back from his chest finally, met his eyes fully with my fingers gripping his t-shirt hard enough to leave pressure marks on my palms, angry and frustrated and wanting to take it out on him somewhat. He was siding with her – _he was_ – I knew he would have gone to her if Sam hadn't told him to stay – _that he just – oh god, I really am alone – I really – _not even Dean – _not even Dean_ – tears burned the back of my eyeballs, even more – _did I have a fucking endless supply?_ – and my nose was clogged and my breathing ragged and my chest was too tight and he was too warm, I was overheating – _and he – Dean just_ _– Sharika and Sam_ – and bile rose in the back of my throat – fear and anger and desperation and – "What? _What? _I do not! How do I? Why do you two keep saying that – how could you _agree_ with her? How could you just –" I took a huge breath in, cutting off my blustering, stepping back, hands dropping down uselessly at my sides, fingers curling inwards. I was _not_ going to start fighting with Dean too – for one thing, I just didn't want to, and for another, I might lose, and for a third thing – I was _still_ _fucking_ _crying_, and it's hard to think of words, let alone arguments when there's a cat in my throat and Niagara Falls wannabes are running down my cheeks. "You know what? Fuck that. I'm not talking about this. Just – just forget about it, okay?"_ I'd had enough for one day – more than anyone should have to – and I can't deal with it – I can't take any more of this – every single fucking thing – fears – all my – they're all being confirmed right in front of my eyes – Dean and Sam and Sharika – everyone – I couldn't – I can't._ I stepped further away from Dean, who was looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a UFO, then turned around and threw myself on the bed; tried to smother my face and tears with a pillow, failing miserably and only managing to clog the breathing holes with material. He could probably still hear the sobs dragging their way out of my throat too. "Just fucking go away and leave me alone, Dean!" I yelled against the pillow, muffling the volume. "I know you want to go to her, so why don't you and just leave me be and –" _Why couldn't I stop fucking crying like a fucking stupid, idiotic victim? Why wouldn't it all just go away and leave me to my 'delusions'? They had to be prettier than reality – safer – I didn't have to think about – I didn't have to think about anything. _I pressed my face deeper into the pillow; bit it, trying to stifle any and every compulsion – thoughts, words, rationalisations and truths. _I needed to get away – I had to escape – too much – too much – burning – drowning – no, no, I'm fine, I'm fine, see? Nothing wrong here, everything's fine folks, just move along now, nothing to see here – just a fucking bleeding disembowelled woman – no – no. I'm just – I'm fine, he and – he can go, they can all go – and I'm live – I will survive – my shoulders are actually heaving, what the fuck – _

"Okay, fine –" Dean said, and I felt his weight settle next to my right hip, the bed groaning beneath our combined weights, sagging under me, forcing our bodies to touch slightly – my bare sliver of skin gliding against his jeans. "Sharika's leaving. And she's not coming back." A wave of sorrow and pain hit my stomach, pulling at my heartstrings as inexorably as a real ocean's tide, trying to make me give in and give it words, trying to make me accept it, spill it all to Dean. I felt too overwhelmed, too beaten up and raw, and my emotions were just grating against my skin wanting to fling out of my flesh, free and unfettered and I couldn't even let them. I had to hold them all back. I had to – had to. And he's _making it worse?_ He's rubbing my nose in it _just like she had?_ He was silent, still waiting for me to say something, again, and when I failed to – as I'd pretty much stopped breathing at all, the pain halting everything but the slide of fresh saltwater tears and the crash of evermore abrasive emotions – he said, "So, how do you feel about that?"

Gasp in raggedly, move my head off of the pillow a little so I could fake some semblance of a normal tone, "So what? I don't care. She can do whatever the hell she wants, it's not my business." _Yeah, yeah right. No – no – that's how it was, if that's how she wanted to play it, if that's what she thought, then that's how it would be. I wouldn't – I wouldn't – I refused to. She could just – just – _

"You don't care at all?" There was a curious undertone to Dean's voice that I ignored, pushing it, and everything else threatening to overwhelm me _away. _

"Nope." I was refusing to let more of this pathetic, broken side of me out. I couldn't let him see it anymore – couldn't let him know how I truly felt – couldn't just show him – he shouldn't have to – it can't get back to her – she can't know – they –

"Sharika, your best friend, your almost-sister?" _What the hell was his point? For fuck's sake – yes, her, the bitch who made me this way. Do you have to keep reiterating it? Prodding at the pain? Making it worse? Making me unable to forget it and just waive it off? Do you have to just keep –? _Close my eyes tight, trying to force out some candidly fake response, feeling my mouth curlicue up at the corners as I tried to force cheerful perkiness and act like none of this was really happening.

"Yep."

"You're proving her right, you know."

My body froze, stunned, against the mattress, hands clenching on air, mouth parting, motionless and – _and _– _what did he just_ –_ no, no I wasn't – he – prove her right? I was proving her right? I was –_ "_What_?" I sat up, pushing viciously with my palms, spinning to meet his eyes, anger at him running through me along with everything else – overwhelming cocktail of emotions and helplessness – and – and – what was he doing – trying to –

"You're doing it right now."

My eyes narrow as I looked into his bland hazel green ones, his mouth relaxed – and then I realised. I realised he'd _manipulated_ me. Manipulated me into realising that I _did_ repress my emotions, ignore them, disregard them and blatantly deny their existence to other people. I'd done it right then and there. Possible scenes ran through my head, all of them centring on ways I could kill him without Sam or the police ever finding out I was the culprit. Personally, I almost believed going to jail for stabbing Dean Winchester would be worth it – but if I could get away with it, why shouldn't I? I was so _pissed-the-fuck-off_ just now I could barely force myself to think straight – or any less twisty-turn-y than before – it was like my fucking head was trying to emulate the Labyrinth and you just know that shit ain't right, 'cause that blonde dude with the mullet, though he had a fucking hot ass was just freaking weird and – Jesus, I really am fucked up, and I know I'm trying to distract myself because I just don't want to admit that – and I am so – it's just not – _they – he – she_ – oh, for _god's_ _sake_. "Fine, _I do_, whatever. But she called me _selfish._"

He blinked at me where I sat next to him on the bed, where I'd moved past reluctant and into huffy, arms crossed under my breasts, mouth turned down at the corners, eyebrows furrowed with resentment. The word 'sulking' was practically strung on a plaque across my forehead. (There was a warning sign on the back.) "Yeah, and?"

"Me? _Me_, selfish? I mean, what the hell? _I_ have to be the least selfish person in this quartet; I am so fucking _un_selfish that I can't believe she could ever say such a lie about me. _Me_. _I _am _not_ –" Then my mouth stopped in the middle of the sentence, still open, now wordless, and my eyes closed. I swallowed. My mouth even spread upwards in the left corner, in a self-berating, derogatory, sarcastic smile, thinking about my continuous reiteration of 'me' and 'I'. Were we not currently in this situation, and everything was already completely fucked – sideways, longways, and over – I'd have laughed. "God, I _am_ selfish."

"Lauren, everyone's selfish," Dean said, rolled his eyes when I looked up at him from under my wet lashes. The tears were still making their slow way down my cheeks, into my mouth and off of my chin to plop onto my boxers; but they were almost forgettable now. Almost, if I didn't dart my tongue out to taste the salt. Almost, if I ignored the faint tickle of them sliding down my skin. Almost. They at least seemed to be forgettable to Dean – and I could understand why. He was more uncomfortable than he would be sitting on a cactus, with the Godfather wielding a lime green dildo standing two feet away. The Winchesters were not the tender type; they were basically clueless when it came to articulating their feelings, or talking about them, even to each other – make that especially to each other. Throw a sobbing woman into the equation, who was close to them and not a victim – who could be handled reasonably routinely – and you know they'd rather have a bullet in their left foot. I mean, seriously. One part of me would almost have preferred to have Sam here. He was generally better, with the whole comfort-the-damsel sitch, and he could be amazingly tender when he wasn't in Dean's company and therefore trying to keep face, even though he still kept his emotions concealed and _– where the hell am I headed with this?_ Mind, haywire. _Oh, right._ Sam equals better with dealing with the grieving women, thus he is the one who generally does the counselling thing. He wouldn't have done what his brother was doing, at least – Dean probably thought if the tears went unnoticed, they would go away; if they didn't exist for him they would cease to.

I wish it fucking worked like that.

I struggled to explain to him why that particular aspect of my fight with Sharika was important – the fact that she thought I didn't give a fuck about her, when in fact she was a major part of my mind's inner working every goddamn day. It meant that I could focus on the small things instead of the larger issue; somehow it was vitally important to describe the particulars. "_Yes_, but she's making it seem like I'm a huge dollop more selfish than everyone else in the world." I rubbed my eyes, pressing my palms against the sockets, hard, trying to stop the flow. It didn't work, and of course, Dean didn't fall for my almost-subject-change. Nor did he continue to ignore the waterworks – obviously facing up to his fears, like a brave, wonderful idiot.

"You're not crying over being called selfish," he said, after a pause, and my palms fell back onto the bed. He searched my eyes, and I couldn't look away from that damned hazel green stare, couldn't dodge the wish to understand concealed inside them. He had a faint smirk on, overlaying all the things I could see beneath it, to give us both some impression of normality, as though we were talking about something mundane. As though what he was asking was simple, one dimensional. "Why _are_ you crying?"

_Goddamnit_. Why did the people in my life have this tendency to always ask heavy questions as though they are easy to answer? It was a query with _four fucking words in it_ – and yet those four fucking words carried so much weight, and were almost impossible to answer without opening up dark places of my self. I mean, I wasn't juts crying like this over _one fight._ It was everything. But I couldn't. I still couldn't let go. I couldn't talk about it to anyone – didn't wish to burden Dean with it, because he was possibly the least confession-inviting person out there, and it didn't seem right. One side of me almost wanted to – to share with him, let him in, let him…what? Hate me even more because of my weaknesses? _Damnit_. "Because of all these things she said and – and – just – I don't want to talk about it to _you_!" Made it seem almost disgusting, laughable – talking to Dean about such issues, as though he were too stupid to understand. I knew he was the opposite. He was obscenely intuitive when it came to some things, and though he wasn't exactly Einstein's reincarnation, as I often accused Sammy of being, he was no chump change either. He was street smart and had truckloads of common sense and – and was just smart in every way that really _mattered_, except personally and emotionally. So, he and his smarts weren't exactly the issue here. It was all me.

I just wanted to push him away.

_Oh god, she was right. Sharika was right – about how I always shove people away before they get too close, repress everything I feel. About how – how everyone will leave me – because I do this. Always. On purpose. Without even thinking about it. _I felt my throat close up with something like hurt, fear and desperation's twisted love child, and sank my teeth as hard as I could on my inner lip without breaking skin, or changing my facial expression. _He's going to leave me. Dean – he –_

"Fine," Dean said, and I saw his eyes narrow that tiniest bit, saw a muscle in his jaw jump as he bit down. "Go and talk about it to Sharika, then – oh, that's right," the sarcastic bite in his voice almost made me wince. I bit down even harder in my mouth to hide it, keep it back; raised an eyebrow at him as an alternative, even pursed my mouth in a impression of an encouraging smile for him to continue. "You're fighting with her, _aren't_ you? That's okay, you can still go talk to Sam – wait I forgot, you can't do _that_ either, 'cause he's with _Sharika_. I guess I'm all you've got."

Contradictorily, I felt something very like warmth rush through me at these words, love, and a rickety, uncertain up-welling of joy – which, I'm sure, is the exact opposite response he was expecting. The thought that he was all I had didn't seem as horrible as it maybe should have. If I actually _did_ have Dean, that is. It was stupid – just – I mean, it's not like he meant it as I wanted to take it. Mushily. Like he actually cared. "I can wait until Sam _leaves_ Sharika." My body language spoke volumes, if I took the time out to study it. Clenched fists, narrowed eyes, shoulders thrust back and muscles tight on my bones. Even with a lap that had a wet patch growing on each thigh from all the tears, and more of them descending in a never-ending stream down my face, the message was obvious. _Stay back, get away, leave me alone. _I knew I was trying to squirm away from him again, trying to get him to give up and back off. It came naturally to me – this need, this impulse to disallow anyone to get close and see what I was really thinking, feeling, going through. _I hate that. How come I've never really noticed this before and everyone else has? How did they see through me that easily? Was I really that transparent – especially when I, apparently, worked so fucking hard at being the opposite? I do not want to think about this in the slightest. It was – it was worrying. And – and scary. _

_What else could everyone see, so clearly, that I didn't wish them to? _

Dean was just giving me this stare, like I was being a dumb ass, leaning his weight on his left arm, which was laid across his thigh, looking up at me. Body giving evidence to what he was no doubt feeling – completely confident that eventually I'd come around to his way of thinking – and admit that he was correct. Which he probably was. No, no, okay, _fine_ – he _was_ right. _Fuck it. _Sam wasn't going to leave Sharika, not tonight, not anytime soon, and we both knew it. And we both knew why, it didn't even need to be said, didn't take a genius to figure it out. That asshole was in love with her – and when it came down to it, he'd back her up, because Dean and I were both right, and he loved her more. He'd gone right to her, because you always look after and protect those you love, when they need your support. Sammy obviously had his priorities straight, and it appeared that I was not at the top of the list when it came to fights with Sharika. _She_ was. He'd already proven this tonight by going to her, without giving me _– me, who had been crying on the fucking bathroom floor practically right in front of him_ – a second thought. _He loved her more than me_. Which, you know, fucking hurt like I'd had my leg sawn off and someone had poured salt water and acid and cockroaches all over and inside it. Don't get me wrong, I mean, I hadn't minded that he loved her – because it had been in a different way from the way he loved me, you know? _We were – he was my –_ I had felt like he was a brother to me, and I had thought he felt the same. I knew he loved _her_ in the mushy-emo-sex-soul-mate kind of way, and hadn't minded – in fact, I'd _liked it._ Encouraged it. I did care about the fact that he cared about her more though. How long had _we_ known each other? Yeah, and how long had _they_ known each other? _Fucking –_ and then he just goes running off to her, without even saying _a_ _single_ _word_ to me, or asking me how I felt, or any of that other uncomfortably-intrusive-while-meaning-to-be-helpful Sammy stuff that I simultaneously dreaded and hoped for. Instead, Dean was left to do the job – he was doing for me what Sam was doing for Sharika. _Did that mean he was – _I stopped myself before I could go any further. Sam had forced him to stay with me; he hadn't stayed of his own volition. "You know as well as I do he's going to side with her over this." _See_? Goddamnit.

I couldn't stop myself from asking, the words just shot out of my mouth. Still, I refused to see them as the mini-prayers and pleadings that they were, scrubbing a hand over my cheekbone to hide my eyes. "So, why aren't you handing her tissues and well-meant, cliché condolences then?" I wanted to hear him say it. Say the words that would just – would make everything better, acceptable. Make the whole night almost palatable, because he'd said it to me. _Say it. Say, because I want to be here with you. Say, I want to help you. Say, I lo– _

"Because Sam's already doing that." He grinned down at me as I gave him my crankiest, I've-just-been-gypped look. I felt cheated, and even when he bumped my shoulder companionably I didn't forgive him. It was as though I'd had even more ripped away from me – and he wouldn't even know it, and it was fucking absurd because I'd never had a chance for him to say it anyway. Still hurt, though. A dull ache that just added to all the rest, as minor as it was compared. I'd wanted him to say everything. Everything that I'd always wished he would – _I love you more. I love you like Sam loves Sharika. I support you. Lauren, I always have. The shapeshifter was telling the truth – you, I've loved you since Lucas Barr and his mother. I've loved you even when you were being stupid, like now. Even when you piss me off. Always. Always. Always. I won't leave you. She was wrong. She was wrong. _Even if I knew _that_ was never going to happen – _ever_ – I could almost taste how it would feel. I wanted it that badly. It would taste like a huge gulp of the darkest, richest hot chocolate. The way it burns your mouth right at the start, because it's too hot and too much for you to handle. But then the flavour fills your mouth, your nose, pervading your whole body with warmth and deliciousness and comfort, smoothing into your awareness and coating it over thick and sweet and wonderful and heady. That's how it would be for Dean to say – those words. Beautiful and – and – _oh, shut the fuck up. Just shut. The fuck. Up. _No matter how I coached myself to get my head out of the clouds – to stop being such a _fucking deluded loser_ – the idea of it was still hanging in the air above my head, a battered neon sign, waiting to be lit. "Anyways, I have to take care of you. You might start banging yourself up against walls, or something, in the state you're in."

I scoffed, playing along with the half-joke, and he passed me a tissue, reaching over to the box on the bedside drawer, and I blew in it, loudly, listening to the disgusting wet sound, cringing. "Like I haven't already done that," I said, voice thicker than usual, and looked for a trashcan to chuck the tissue into.

"Against the bathroom wall with me doesn't count." My head jerked back to face him, and I was surprised the speed didn't have it rolling across the floor, still gaping at him, mouth and eyes open wide. This was – what? The first time we'd ever mentioned it? _Ever?_ Astonishment and lust's retarded second cousin rocketed through me – violent hot pink streaks of lightning. He _is_ talking about the time in the library – right? I couldn't misconstrue that, although the way he'd lead me into it had been decidedly lame. Seriously, _'I might start banging myself up against walls'?_ Ha. Preposterous. That was _his_ job – oh, no, no, _no! _We are not talking, or thinking, about this. I am not going to think about the weight of him on top of me, pressing me against the cold bathroom wall, the way he'd surrounded me, the shape of him against and inside of me. I was not going to think about the little breathless noises he made, as he thrust into me, fingers digging into my hips, leaving purple bruises that I had brushed with my own over afterwards, heating up at the mere thought of how they'd come to be. I wasn't going to think about how he tasted, or smelt – musky sweet and salty against my tongue and teeth and lips. I wasn't going to think about the way he'd shuddered when he came, the wetness of his mouth on my neck, the warmth of his palms on my breasts. I wasn't going to think about the way his eyes had gone all dark and glazed and burning, as he'd watched me writhing against his body. Wasn't going to think about any of that at all.

_Oh, Goddamnit. _

_No, no, we're stopping now. No more thinking about how he'd stretched and filled me, consumed – okay, okay, no. No. Bad Lauren._ I knew exactly what he was trying to do – use shock therapy on me. He thinks he'll hit me with that, I'll get totally offended and start trying to refute everything else he says, and then start accidentally spilling stuff to him. _I refuse to let myself fall into his sadistic games_, I thought, set my mouth, and glared at him as he gave me a guileless look. "So, what's this all really about?"

"It's about nothing – okay, _nothing_ – not that she thinks I'm a child and don't care about her at all! Not that she thinks I'm the one who abandoned _her_, and not about how everyone's going to leave me eventually – which she _didn't_ practically say straight out and throw in my face!" I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a smug, defiant look. Oh, and then everything I'd said ran through my head like storm water, and the impact stopped my thought process. Mild confusion, a spiralling indignation, disbelief, and even an objective, somewhat amused feeling swirled through and out of me like I was a drain, and I closed my eyes, opened them and gave him a blank, emotionless look. "I hate you."

"She said you're going to be alone?" Dean said, latching onto possibly the worst thing he could have – because, _hello_, I would have rather talked about anything else more than that. _Anything. _

I sighed, looked away from him. Started plucking at my boxer shorts where they laid tight and wet against a circle of thigh, feeling my butt sinking into the lumpy mattress, thinking about how much I hated 'deep and meaningful's, and the fights and issues that sparked them. I really didn't want to talk about this; I really didn't even want to think about it – what she'd said, all of it, as though it were just simple, compact truth. _Eventually they will get tired of trying to break through your barriers, and move on. And then you'll truly be left alone. _It didn't matter, the _'if you keep'_, and _'whatever'_s. What mattered was that she'd confirmed and spat out my deepest fear at me. Said it like I was being stupid for ever thinking it, even though every part of my life had led me inexorably to that conclusion, no exceptions. My whole family, Sharika, John, a whole lot of randoms that had passed through my life and promised me redemption, promised me love, promised me… the boys wouldn't stick around forever either. That went without saying – Sam actually had a life outside of this, and Dean – well, Dean wouldn't want me around for long after we wasted his demon, if he'd ever wanted me around at all. Still, I managed to get it out, the words thick and grating against my voice box, jagged, rusty razorblades. "Yes," I whispered, cleared my throat and repeated louder, aiming for flippant, "Yes. Because she said I keep everyone at a distance to protect myself, some shit like that."

"Yeah, so? You do." More imparting of simplistic, one-dimensional truths. He said it looking right into my eyes too, so I knew he believed it. I could read it, right there behind his eyes like I was the one who was always wrong – had been this entire night, and I was just fucking fed up. Just fucking fed up and getting even angrier the longer I sat here, thinking about the fight, talking about it to Dean, thrashing it out and rolling it over and beating it like a dirty, smothering rug. It was – it was just pointless and made it worse, rawer, more real. _Why – why couldn't everyone – everyone just – why couldn't someone be on my side for once?_ _Why couldn't someone just back me up without thinking it over fully, knowing all the details, having to decide? Why couldn't someone just be there for me emotionally, no questions asked, everything just instinctual and – and – why couldn't he? Why did he have to keep consenting and agreeing and making me –?_

"No, I _don't_!" I fisted my hands on my thighs, gripping the soft cotton of the boxers, _hating_ – hating and – and I bit the inside of my lip, hard and tried not to cry, tried not to think. It didn't work. _Why do people keep telling me these things? It's not true – it's NOT. Yes, it is. I know it. Everyone knows it. Oh god, stop it! Stop it! I was right too! Not everything she said was correct and without bias and – and – I just – I mean, I was fucking allowed. In fact, I was __entitled__ to a couple of barriers, everything I'd been through. It was my coping – my defence mechanism. What, they wanted me to let everything, everyone in, just so I can break down later? Yeah, fucking right. That's really practical. _I tried to lace myself and thoughts up in superiority, with some kind of amusement at their ludicrous wishes, with how Sharika and Dean were just as alike as I'd always thought._ Unfortunately, just like the not-thinking thing – it was not working. At-fucking-all. _

"Yeah, whatever," Dean used his Sammy-tactics; pretending to agree, moving on past something he knew I wasn't ready to accept or deal with, and sliding in the next topic smooth as you please, over-earnest look to match. I would have fallen for it, somewhat, if I didn't see the hand furthest away from me tapping against his thigh, if I didn't notice the little twitch in his jaw, and the tensed set of his shoulder muscles, which he was still trying to hide from me by slumping down, one elbow resting on his spread knees. Typical Dean _I-am-so-fully-relaxed-and-comfortable-right-now_. _Yeah right_ – over playing it there, just a little, Captain Obvious. _Thank_ _you_. "Why was she pissed at you? She's been mad for days before this." He said this almost admonishingly, and my eyes just _widened_, just _grew,_ _just – just –_

_No, no freaking way. He's siding with Sharika too! Acting just like her, like it's all my fault. If he noticed how she was, he must have noticed how I've been. Why couldn't he just think, for one second consider, that I hadn't been the one to start it? That maybe I was the victim here? No. No. I can't do it any more, I'm not telling him anything else – I hate him – he's being all – and – and – _"Because I let slip that I knew about the John thing." And then I grunted, plopped my face into my palm and hated myself; hated this unbeatable instinct to just blurt everything out to Dean – because truthfully? Somewhere in even more fucked up regions of my brain, than the immediate, I wanted to. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to show him my shadows, let him in on the fight – let him inside my walls, just in case there was the barest, most miniscule chance that he'd then stay. Be here for me. Maybe such a show of trust would convince him not to leave me, maybe then he'd just – just _stay_. With me. He'd care. It was too late with Sharika, she was – she was gone, really, and I had to accept that it was too late. But with Dean, maybe there was a possibility… He'd – he'd be Dean, but – but he'd mean something by it._ Oh, for fuck's sake._ I slid fingers through my curls, gripped tightly, wanting to pull my hair out and gag myself with it. Did my stupidity tonight never end? Obviously _not_.

"She didn't know you knew?" Now he wasn't faking the incredulous. Widened hazel green eyes, furrowed brows, the way he jerked his body up for a second – _as though someone had shoved a cattle prod up his ass,_ I couldn't help thinking with a flitting sense of satirical pleasure – and the flicker of shock that he quickly swallowed inside an expression that demanded an explanation – it all attested to this fact. That he really was shocked that I hadn't told her all this time, that I'd hidden it away like I hid so much else. Despite myself I felt a little ashamed by this, that even Dean thought I should have – had done. I wanted – I needed to know why he assumed that I would have told her about that. I mean, it was – why would I have? It's not like he shares with Sam when he finds out horrible things – why would he think I'd be any different? Any more selfish, by forcing others to carry that burden? If she'd known that I had known – I mean, I had no idea what she would have done. Pressured me into talking about it more? Tried to persuade me to see her reasoning, like I was unentitled to my own thoughts and opinions and emotions? That's what she'd done tonight, really. Acted as though everything inside me didn't matter – _still_ didn't matter – that I either felt too much or showed too little. _She had to fucking make up her mind what she wanted from me. _I couldn't help what emotions I underwent, and there she was saying I was overdramatising; she either wanted me to be honest about my emotions, or she didn't. Way to fucking confuse a girl. I bit my lip, looked away from him, debated on whether or not to answer honestly. I did _not_ want to; was aware that it would make me look like the worst kind of hypocritical bitch, and then he undoubtedly would walk away, just go without allowing me to explain my reasons, why I'd done it – everything. But I was a hunter. I had to make _fucking hard decisions_ every day of my life, and if I viewed this as such what I had to do was _fucking obvious_, because I didn't really have _a fucking choice. _

I didn't want to tell the truth. But I did. "No…"

"Wait, so this is what this whole thing was about?" His eyebrows were making every effort to disappear into his hairline. I watched them in fascination, not meeting his eyes. _Goddamnit._ "Why didn't you tell her before?"

"I had my reasons…" His eyebrows jerked, he gave me that tiny head-bob that told me in no uncertain terms to continue, and I huffed out an exasperated breath, saying with a dismissive wave of my hand, "I can't think of them _right_ _now_ – I'm distraught!" _Yeah, that's the reason. And he'll so fall for it._ "If you hadn't noticed the tears, and snot Dean!" I reached past him for another tissue, blew my nose to emphasize my point. Then I sighed, said in a more serious voice, as I scrunched up the tissue and cursed my weaknesses; "I just, I don't really know, okay? I was still fucked up about her leaving me, which is one of the main points here – why I've acted like I had. You know?"

He ran a hand through his hair and it spiked up in that ridiculously adorable way, giving evidence to his agitation. I knew if he didn't think he had to sit by me, to, I don't know, do _something_ at least, he would've been pacing the room, exercising out all his helpless frustrations. It was in the stressed, drawn lines of his muscles, bunching under his skin. "The hardest part about this is you're _both_ right," he grunted, rubbed his forehead, pinched his nose. "Each of you had a right to feel and act how you did. She did leave you in the first place, but you could have avoided this whole thing if you'd ended it the moment you found out about Dad's involvement. You could have walked in, and got it all out there in the open, and none of this would have happened. Instead you dragged me off to the library to have your way with me." He tossed me half a smirk, and my eyes widened again. What was this, two mentions in so many minutes? _Goddamnit, he really is pulling out the big guns tonight._

Still, I wasn't going to let him get away with it. _I_ had my way with _him_? "What?! _What?!_" My voice was all squeaky from the fact that we were actually, in any way, kind of discussing the issue – the sex – the – _Dean_. _Fuck._ This was stupid. I sounded like a mouse, or something equally small and piping and trodden on without any breath. "_I_ dragged _you_ off? Does '_Lauren, library, now!_' not sound familiar to you, cave man?"

"That's not the point," he said, mouth twitching. He'd been _distracting_ me. The _ass_. From the fact that he'd been agreeing with Sharika, and me, but mostly her. Disgruntlement, a little anger and the urge to pout childishly ran through me, along with this slightly stung feeling, peroxide on a cut. A good sting. I mean, okay, I was the one who'd let it go on, really. She'd just begun the process, I could've been the bigger person and chosen to stop it but – oh, no, now he was manipulating my _thoughts?!_ _Fuck!_ How did the bastard _do_ that? I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but he just held up his hand, stopped me, locked his eyes on mine. "Okay, just tell me how it all happened – from the start, this time."

I sighed, coughed and said in dry, storyteller tones, "Alright, so you know how I told you something bad was going to happen?" He nodded. "Well, so, yeah, I went in after her and then I was like," my mind flashed back to my words, _'what's up your ass?'_, and I blinked, halting them from coming out. Okay, I couldn't say I said _that_ – it probably was a little too graphic and – yeah, okay, I just didn't want him to know I'd goaded her into it. It _wasn't_ my fault. Not _entirely_. "I said, _'we need to talk'_." Dean gave me his raised eyebrow look, and I ignored it, knowing he knows me, and not caring. "Anyways, she was like, I have nothing to say to you, so I asked her again and then she started throwing insults at me."

"Such as?"

"I already told you. Look, it doesn't matter now." I gulped in a deep breath, tried to repress the shudder that my thoughts were evoking. Now that I'd managed to get the basics out, all the extras were piling on top of me, weighing me down and pushing out more and more tears. The words came thick and fast, companion to the wet, and I wanted to throw myself on the bed, or Dean – hide away into something and never let the world see my face or my scars or my emotions or my fears again. "She's _leaving_ and she's never coming _back_ and I'm never going to _see_ her again – and – and –" Hiccups caught in my throat, stopping the stream of word vomit, and I hid in my hands, pressing fingertips against my forehead, trying to hold back the pains growing there and overwhelming me. _Emotional, mental, physical. All I need is fucking sexual or spiritual pain and the cycle is complete. Dean won't do me now though – I must look a fucking mess. Why the fuck am I thinking about this? Shit, I'm a complete freak. Messed up, stupid freak. Everyone is going to leave me. Everyone. She's leaving me. She's – everyone – she's – _Crying does that. I bet I had bloodshot eyes and dribbles from every facial cavity and pale, sweaty skin and flushed cheekbones and was all droopy and depressed looking. I bet he'd rather do a zombie. I bet – "And I can't – I can't Dean – she – she and – and she –"

Lost in my own misery I almost didn't feel Dean tensing up beside me, which, you know, would have been gross inobservance on my part, because he was so embarrassed he practically radiated heat all over my side. After I noticed I felt that I wouldn't be surprised if he burst into flames, or something. "Lauren…" he said, voice super low and uncomfortable, body tensed so much I heard it in his voice, and I wondered… what the hell? What was wrong? What was he going to – and then he said it. "Just – uh – let it all out."

I took my head out of my hands to stare at him, tears still streaming, breaths pulled in harsh and tight, and met his eyes. They were wide and sincere and hazel green and unsure and _Dean_, which just made me feel – I don't know, just comfortable, just _right_, in sync – and I just did it; just threw my arms around his shoulders, pressed my face into his neck, and – warm, tanned arms closed around my waist and pulled me against his chest, contracting just firm enough so that all our fronts were pressed into union. _Dean_ – _he was_ – my eyes opened and blinked at the wall in shock. He was _hugging me back_, and he was heated and hard and all taut muscles against my melting, sagging, damp softness, sending deep tingles straight to my stomach. He wasn't trying to hide any part of him, of how he was feeling – stiff and stifled and out of his depth – and I loved him, more than I maybe ever had, in this exact moment. _Dean. Dean was here. He was with me. For me. Dean. _He didn't like what he was doing, but he _was_ doing it, and that was the point – that was what meant something. He was doing it for _me_, because _I_ _needed_ _it_ – and Dean, deep down beneath his macho, manly-man exterior, was a bit of a soft touch for a damsel in distress, which, as much as it pained me to admit, I was. At the moment. A little. Maybe. Oh, _fuck it._ I was Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty all wrapped up in a less-pale-soft-skinned, more-prone-to-violence, weeping package, with demons and ghosts and pride in place of poisoned apples and stepmothers and spinning wheels.

The surrealistic atmosphere wrapped around me; Dean's arms, strong and heavy, draped around my shoulders, his breath fluttering the hairs at my temple, the silhouette of us melded together on the grubby, peach-coloured wall, the musky sweet scent of him in my nostrils – it all came together in some kind of dreamy, anticlimactic-lust concoction that had me wanting to spill my life story to him. If I couldn't now, when could I ever? And – and – there was really no point in doing it, it wouldn't solve anything, he wasn't my fucking _therapist_, I didn't want to just start dumping my shitty history on him – didn't want to use him like that, because he was here, he was making it better, he was convenient and – he – and – I didn't want to make him even more uncomfortable. Besides, I had to keep reminding myself of the last time we'd used each other as the convenient fuck, to let go of all our emotions. And the time I'd tried to use that other guy at that bar. Me and Dean here – we were pretty much a psychiatrist's wet dream – the way we repressed and then absolved our emotions in a sexual manner could entertain one for years. I didn't want to use Dean; even if he didn't love me like I loved him, it was just plain wrong to use someone simply for your own purposes – so you could forget your problems. And – if I did, if I maybe, what, shared? Then what? What did I expect of him? What would he think I expected of him? What would he expect of me? Did I really want to be that vulnerable – did I really want to have to deal with the morning after, thing, I mean, seriously? It was the stupidest, most irrational, most unfounded urge I'd had in a long time – and that was saying something.

"I used to be normal, you know," my mouth opened, and muttered into his skin, and I huffed out some representation of a laugh. "Me, normal? Who'd have thunk it, right?" Dean didn't move, didn't budge, didn't shift – he just sat there, arms around me, and I just felt – he wasn't asking anything of me. He was just there, whatever I wanted to say, I felt he would just – just take it, without question, without judgement, without any kind of reaction. That way I'd just – just be able to keep talking. And so – I did. "I used to be that little girl you saw in playgrounds, laughing and smiling and generally being the perfect little example of childhood. You know the type, Dean; the one who wore her heart on her sleeve and was close to everyone, gave anything to anyone." I shook my head slightly, feeling the stretch of my mouth as it curlicues up in the corners, felt it as I tried to paste a smile on; something to cover up the very real tension inside of me. I could see it – the little girl with the big eyes and angelic smile, dark blonde curls a bouncing halo around her head as she picked flowers and handed them to her mother in a ragged bouquet that'd be tucked into a vase on the kitchen counter, pride of place next to the fruit bowl. That wasn't me anymore – now if I had the urge to pick flowers I stopped to take the time to wonder if they were bewitched or not. And then I decided the risk wasn't worth it, and hey, what would I use them for anyway? They'd just die. It was amazing to think of the difference. _Was I really – was I seriously doing this?_ _God, just – just stop it. _"And then I started to grow up, and I wasn't – well, let's just say I wasn't as _acquiescent_ to my mother's wishes as I had been. I mean, I was a tomboy. It was all Mötley Crüe posters and mullet rock and jeans for me, and she tried to force me into all these frilly dresses and stuff. I mean, Jesus, some of them even had _ruffles, _Dean. _Ruffles._" I paused, and he stroked a hand down the tense muscles of my back, just once. A sign for me to continue, that he was listening – that he was there. _Dean – Dean was – oh god, how am I supposed to –_ I breathed out sharply, swallowed, continued, involuntarily. Kept whispering into his skin, kept telling him everything that I'd never really told anyone – kept trusting him."You could say we had a falling out – me and my mother. It's what my dad – what _Thom_ – always used to say – he was the, the carburettor – what mixed us all together, kept us running smooth, you know?" He nodded against the top of my head, and despite his embarrassment and rigidity about the situation – _he thought __he__ was uncomfortable?_ – I could almost see his smile. How pathetic was it that I was resorting to talking car parts to get him to understand? How pathetic was it that I wanted him to understand that much I was resorting to talking car parts? Seriously. That's how much I wanted him to get it – what the guy who I'd thought for half my life was my dad meant to me, to my family. The guy who was actually a murderer – a man who'd killed my true father, turning him into a restless vengeance-craving spirit. _The __carburettor? Yeah, he must really think I'm an idiot now. If he didn't before. Which he did – oh, shut up._ "I always thought that he'd be there, even if she wasn't, for me, anymore. I'd always have my brothers and my dad there. But I was wrong – he – they died. You were there."

I gulped. Now came the hardest parts – the – the – _I can't do this – I can't handle this_ – I'd kept it all locked away for so long that all the years of resistance and repression were rising in front of my eyes; waves of memories and times I'd stopped myself from saying anything clogging my throat. _I'm scared – I'm scared – I can't – I can't do this – don't – please – don't – I just – I'm not strong enough, I was never strong enough – and then –_ I have to stop this; maybe if I just pretend to fall asleep, Dean will just forget about it, he won't – he won't – no. _No_. This is what Sharika was talking about; this instinctual need I have to keep everyone away, to keep everyone from discovering the essential parts of me. What had I told myself after the shapeshifter in St Louis? I couldn't keep pushing everyone away, couldn't keep everyone out, because eventually it'd all just get worse. This was – this may be hard, and I may feel like choking myself to stop the words from coming out, but in the long run – it'd – it'd be better. _I'd_ be better. I shouldn't oppress my emotions, shouldn't keep them bottled up, hidden and disgusting and rotting away at the edges of my awareness. I shouldn't do it anymore – if I wanted to move on, wanted to be a stronger person, I had to let it out; everything. No matter how fucking painful. _It – I can't – I can't – I have to. I have to. I can. I can. _

"Then my mother – she – well, she thought that I'd done it, somehow." I tried a laugh, the sound coming out all ragged and throaty, and then we were lying on the bed, my head pillowed on Dean's chest, his arms still around me. I blinked. _He – we – this_ – and then I just went with the flow. My back had been hurting from holding the position so long anyway; this was infinitely more comfortable. Plus, I can – no, no. I kept my face tilted downwards, away from his eyes. I didn't want him to see my expression as I was talking about this. It was bad enough he could hear every inflection in my voice, every change in tone that I tried to stifle, every pause for a steadying breath. "We'd grown so far apart that she could believe I'd turned into some kind of psychotic; that I could kill my family. I was a thirteen year old Elizabeth Bathory – with less bathing in the blood of my victims, and more protestations of innocence. No one believed me – that I hadn't done it. She made sure of that. Even my little brother was scared of me." I paused, seeing Darren's eyes loom in my vision – big, hazel green and gold eyes just like mine, staring at me. Terrified. The hurt I'd felt, the tearing pain as I'd tried to explain, tried to speak, say anything, and he'd burst into tears, screamed at me. Called me a murderer. _Murderer._ My own little brother, who I'd been there for my whole life – he'd been frightened of me. Because of her. I heard Dean swallow from above me, and knew he understood – was thinking of Sammy, and all the things he'd done that his brother didn't know about. The dark secrets that were never shared, in terror of his family fearing him, what he did, who he was. "Your dad was the only reason I wasn't sent to jail or a mental institute right there. Of course, that didn't stop _Marie_ from trying to get me into one.

"Well, I couldn't stay there any more, of course – I had to bail; wasn't really Brady material anymore. I left, took a couple of trains, hitchhiked to Pastor Jim's. And then – well, I was on my own. I couldn't trust anyone, I couldn't let anyone in; I couldn't, because they'd just hurt me, and I couldn't handle that anymore. Ever again." I swallowed, and my mouth twitched, remembering, and the words slid out of me, a stream of never ending memories. "But then I met Sharika – and, well, she got under my defences like they weren't even there – grew on me like a particularly stubborn fungus." I laughed, coarse and bittersweet, memories gliding at the seams of my consciousness – the first free smile she'd ever given me, shooting a poltergeist in the head with a rock salt bullet when it got too close to her, panic whenever I saw her hurt. I could still hear the crack of her wrist bone on our third hunt, could still taste copper from that punch she'd gotten past me the first time she was possessed, could still smell our first attempt at baking cookies in a motel kitchenette. Could still feel the relief and laughter and adrenaline in our first hug. Could still see her face the first time I'd found her again, when she'd thought I was dead. Yeah, she'd gotten under _every_ _level_ of my defences, alright. "I tried, you know, to keep her at a distance; but she was so – well, she needed someone there for her, because she'd lost so much, and – well, what can I say? I'm fucking fantastic. She loved me straight off the bat. Before I knew it I had some kind of family again. No matter how fucked up it was, we had each other, always there, to rely on, you know? Like you have Sam. And I was – I was happy." _I had been. I'd been so happy. I had – I was loved. I had a family again, was trusted – could trust. Could rely on someone._ "But then, of course, she left." A momentary thought entered my mind – one about mentioning John. But that'd be stupid. I didn't want to get Dean angry with me too, and besides – _he just – it wasn't – it was relevant, but it didn't have to be said._ "Just like my father and brother, and I couldn't handle it. Like, literally. I was incapable of movement; I stayed in the same motel bed, waiting, practically in a coma, for her to come back. Think vegetable – times by a bazillion. She didn't – and afterwards – well, I was – kind of messed up. I didn't care what happened to me anymore, what did it matter? If I died there'd be no one to mourn over me, or anything. I was no one – no one would even notice I was gone. That was my brief brush with being emo; after that I threw myself into every hunt as though it was my last – I'm surprised I survived for the year before I met you and Sam. And then I did – you know, meet you, knock you out in a bar, etcetera." I chuffed a laugh against his chest, envisioning that meeting – how arrogant he'd been, and my half-drunk, pride-filled aggression. Smiled against his shirt as I thought about everything we'd all gone through, how it had gotten to me, so that before I'd even noticed it, I had family _again_. No matter how much I didn't want it – couldn't trust it – couldn't bear to, I had yet another one thrust upon me. They'd slipped under my barriers with the ease that they slipped into locked buildings. Effortlessly, silently, confident. "And then you two got under my skin – I mean, Sam's like a surrogate brother to me now – and you're – well, you're my – um, you're Dean." I bit my lip. Okay, I was all for the sharing-is-caring thing now, I mean, I was doing this, right? Spilling my history like milk for him to mop up. But I wasn't so far gone I'd be mentioning the 'I-love-you-more-than-life' thing I had going. Seriously. "Anyways," I said, skipping over the issue. "She came back. And it was _an_ _accident_. For all I knew she never wanted to see me again. I was furious – and I was scared; and even scarier than the whole situation was the fact that I was – I was fucking _happy_ that she came back – I was _hopeful_. I wanted to – to – have a relationship with her again, you know? Part of me wanted to let her in again straight away. The bigger part of me crushed that stupidity, of course. And then she joined us.

"But I couldn't talk about what had happened – I wasn't ready, and it was all fucked up in my head. I didn't know what I felt – what I thought. Some part of me wanted her to go through what I'd gone through – habit had me practically spilling every single thought to her. You have no idea how hard it was to restrain those instincts. Then, of course, I found out why she'd left, which made the situation all the more confusing, because she thought she was doing the right thing, she said she hadn't done it voluntarily. Like it wasn't hard enough _before_. I just _had_ to find out that she was trying to save me, be my very own gender-confused knight in shining armour. Which was sweet and all, although she could have consulted me before hand and we could have talked about it and come to a decision _together_ –" I stopped myself, breathed deeply and cut the hurt, prideful tangent off at the bud. Now was not the time. _Never_ was the time, for that. "I understand that she was scared," I whispered, and his hand continued to stroke, careful, slow and smooth down my back, melting me against his side. The tears were slower now, almost not there. I shifted my face to a drier patch on his chest, my breath fluttering, halting. This whole, understanding-the-other-side thing was good for empathy, whatever, but it didn't help that I was still confused about it. That I did understand, on one hand, while on the other I didn't – I wanted to stick to my earlier convictions, that I was right, she was wrong, and that was it. But I couldn't. "And that she panicked. I mean her _parents_… But, we could have stopped the both of us from going through that – we could have found a way to stop the demon from killing again. Anything would have been better, you know? And it wasn't all as clean cut as it had been, as I thought it had been, because your –" I stopped myself from bringing John up again. "I mean, there were outside forces that also had a hand in her decision." Cleared my throat. "So anyway, I kind of ignored the situation, hoping in the back of my head it would get better on its own, while I told myself I'd talk to her about it eventually. I'd talk about it when it was all sorted out in my head. But I never took the time out to do that of course; I never even thought about it, if I could help it. And it did start to get better, for a while. It was just how it used to be between us. But, as she mentioned in the fight, I'd just managed to delude myself. I hadn't been thinking about what she was going through, that she had to live with that secret, that guilt all that time. And now she's going to leave, and I really am never going to see her again." Fear rose in me again – the fear of admitting my true weaknesses, and vulnerabilities. What I truly felt and thought. But I still said it, instead of pushing it down where I felt it belonged. "I need her Dean, I do. She has always been there for me, in some way, you know? When we were together, I was stronger – and even after she abandoned me, I could use her as a spur to keep myself going, to spite her, show her in my own head that I was capable of living without her. And now it's all screwed to hell. She thinks I don't care about her at all, which is dumb. I know I have you and Sammy, but it's not the same. You guys are going to leave some day, you don't need me Sharika and I need each other, like you and Sam need each other. We're symbiotic." I pasted a big fake smile on my face, tried to insert a joke – or half of one, really, because it was just pathetic. "I mean, I can't go up to you and tell you my uterus is trying to murder me from the inside, and she can't go up Sam and tell him about her disastrous waxing experiment."

Dean's large, warm hands stopped their in their path, stilling against my lower back, and I tried not to tense again as he finally spoke for the first time since I'd started this stupid confession. "What makes you think she's going to leave?"

"Well," I said, stupefied. _What the hell? Didn't I just explain – oh, forget it. _"What does she have to stick around for?"

"You," Dean said, all simplicity and utter confidence. Then I felt his smirk, saw it at the edge of my vision. His hands were still warm and spread against the skin of my back, and when he smiled I felt his fingers flex the tiniest bit. "And even if you don't believe that, Sam."

"Dean," I said, and I couldn't stop myself from gushing the question closest to my heart. The words rose up against the roof of my mouth, choking me until I just let them spill loose, fast and blurry and desperate – "Do you think everyone's going to just leave me?"

"Honestly Lauren?" There was a scary, weighted pause, and I clutched the sides of his black t-shirt between my palms, waiting, trying not to give away how my whole body had stiffened._ Oh god, they are – he knows it – I know it – they're all just going to give up on me, stop trying and just leave and I –_ "No." _No? No? No. They – he –_ "I'm not going to leave you. I mean, I can't speak for _Sam_, considering all the times you've stolen and hidden his shirts, but I'm pretty sure he loves you." I half laughed, half sobbed against his chest. It's not like I could _help_ stealing Sam's shirts – some of them were beyond horrible; he had _plaid_ and _stripes _and besides… it was just wrong to cover up a body like the one Sam had. I bit my lip, sucked it into my mouth and rubbed my face a little against Dean. He'd never know how much those few sentences meant to me. "And despite what Sharika says, she'd never leave you. She loves you too. And even if she can't be there physically, she'll still just be there." Dean paused, and I knew he was trying to get me to understand what he meant. That she'd always be there for me emotionally. I managed a watery smile – somewhere in me I'd always known that, but hearing Dean confirm it – well, it was just – it was – I couldn't even describe it. "If she didn't care about you she wouldn't be over there with Sam crying her eyes out right about now."

"How do you know she's crying her eyes out?" I said, trying to act indignant and lighten the atmosphere. There'd been enough angst tonight to last me for the rest of the year. Oh, who was I freaking kidding? I was a complete angst bucket. I'd find the next thing I could to angst about, no matter what it was. I couldn't help myself – I over thought things way, _way_ too much. "She could be like…having sex, or something." I glanced up to see Dean just looking down at me, eyebrow raised, and I rolled my eyes. I knew as well as he did that Sharika wouldn't be doing anything, anything like that. She'd probably just be sitting there, researching and trying to distract herself. I doubted she'd even be crying – and if she were, she'd be trying to repress it. _Hypocrite. _"Fine, _fine_. No, she couldn't. Well, now what am I supposed to do?"

"Apologise," Dean drawled, shifted a little, and I grabbed for his shoulders to steady myself, slung a leg across his knees and muttered darkly into his skin, something indistinguishable and wordless – just admonishing enough to stop him from moving again. _I was comfortable here, damnit. I could even sleep. On Dean. _The idea gave me pleasant waves inside that almost dispelled the stiffness resulting from all the soul bearing. Almost. I was too tired, too drained and uptight.He continued on as though he hadn't noticed. "Sort yourself out, and apologise."

"No, I can't." The words were out before I even thought about it – yet another slip in an endless litany of them tonight. And the thing was, even though I hadn't meant to let them out, they were still ninety-nine percent true and honest and what I was feeling and wanted to say. Which was stupid – considering I'd exorcised some issues, and even come to accept that – well, it wasn't exactly all one sided and I wasn't all-powerful-completely right. _Right?_ But I still wasn't ready to apologise. Nowhere near. She'd made me into a blubbering, silly-putty mess all over Dean's sternum – which, you know, wasn't completely horrible bar for the confession thing – and I just – she made me so – weak and pathetic and stupid. I wasn't going to just let the last vestiges of pride and dignity slip even further out of my reach, when we'd both been wrong and were equally to blame and – it just wouldn't be _fair._ No. She could apologise to me, and then I'd apologise to her, and it'd all be _fine. _"It was all – everything I did was cause and effect of her leaving me, okay? We're both to blame here, and I just – I don't want to be the one to end it this time, what if she's not ready, and just what if she's not – you know? Besides, _she_ _started it._"

"_Lauren_…" Dean huffed, and then I could just feel the fight leave him, rushing out, muscles losing the last of their tension as his spine pushed back into the sagging mattress and he rolled his shoulders, and probably his eyes. I felt all the warm, corded strength in them and shut my eyes extra-extra tight so I wouldn't start thinking about it. _Dean, damn you. Damn you to special hell. With ice cream. Damn, I could kill for some Ben and Jerry's. Especially if I could eat it off of his ch– oh, oh no. No. Not going there. Dean, stop fucking moving and smelling edible and being wonderful and not completely understanding but totally you and forcing me to confess and even though I don't like it I know it's good for me and I want you now, now, now you freaking hot-fantastic-dickhead and –_ "She'll apologise too. You know Sammy, with his puppy eyes of doom. He'll persuade her."

I sighed, squirmed further into him, trying to disguise it as a shoulder-roll of my own, and telling myself it was in no way an attempt to sink into his skin. Placed my hand over his other pectoral, the one my cheek wasn't squashed happily against. _Yeah, right, I wasn't trying to sink into his skin._ Quickly I removed my head from that topic and onto the more pressing issues – sorting the fight out, all that angsty stuff. I really didn't need to get distracted_. This would be a whole-fucking-lot easier if he would just –_ yeah, yeah, I knew Sam, he'd probably try and tell her to apologise, too. Just like Dean had with me, before realising that prodding and nagging and pressing the issue – as Sam was liable to do – wasn't the best way to get me to do anything. He knew I'd ignore him; go against him just to spite him. It was so me.

"So…." I finally said, making my voice all perky and unweighted, trying to erase all the shit we'd just talked about. _Not gonna happen. _Man, I have way too many issues and defence mechanisms and sarcasm. And I was too obvious. Totally had to work on that. When I could move. Not now, in other words. _Mmm, warm. _"Need to get anything off of _your_ chest Dean?"

"Besides you, you mean?"

"Sorry, I'll _move_," I sniped, crabby, a little stung, and then we're fighting and flailing around and giggling kind of and then – _somehow – fuck you, deity of coincidences –_ our faces ended up about an inch apart. _Oh, hell. Like I needed any more problems. Problems? Oh Dean. Dean. Fuck. _Breathing, non-existent? Check. Frozen eternity? Check. Big, looming, captivating hazel green eyes? Check. Overwhelming lustful thoughts? Check. Melting inhibitions? Check. All previous issues disappearing? Check. _Oh, god. Kiss me. Kiss me. Make it better. Take me. Dean, Dean, please. Can we –?_

"So are you staying here, or going back?" he said, and I blinked, noticing for the first time that his demeanour wasn't exactly screaming 'wild-crazy-sex'. His face, his body, it was more studiously blank. Except maybe his fingers, where they were clenched tightly on my waist, digging in just enough to have bite, and I knew it was because he was trying to tell me to _get away _from him. Obviously, he could read my thoughts, and was – _was – oh, god, I am a complete embarrassment to myself. _

"Uh…" Mind blank? Check. Flushing cheeks – _oh, fuck yes, check, check, check! I hate myself. _"Here?" I swallowed, started to babble, leant away, blinked rapidly to try and dispel the enthrallment, the fast, crushing flush of desire._ Goddamnit._ "I mean, if that's okay with you –"

"Yeah," he interrupted me, cleared his throat and shifted beneath me again, fingers letting go slowly, but hands still on my skin. This time I didn't try and cling to him like a leech – consequence? I was almost thrown onto the floor. _Damn fucking motel bed – god I – I can't believe – oh man, oh man_ – "What bed do you want? I'm guessing Sam'll stay with Sharika."

"Can I just…stay with you, for tonight, please? I don't want to be…alone." I swallowed, squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for Dean to scoff at me, waiting to be pushed onto the floor. _Oh, god, how fucking stereotypically vulnerable and stupid and foolish can I get? I am so, so, so dumb – beyond dumb – what is he going to say – what __can__ he say to that – oh god he's going to give me the look – and then – and I –_

"Yeah, okay."

_Okay… _

_There is a possibility that all those stereotypical damsels in distress may have been on to something._

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AN: Okay guys - I am so sorry that I haven't replied to any PMs or reviews this week – simple reason being I didn't get them. Have I mentioned my severe adherence of fanfiction net? Because yeah. It will die. Believe me. T'will slowly, slowly die.

The next chapter deals with how everyone reacts to the fight. It's even longer than this chapter. Too lazy to write a promo. _:droops:_ I went to the city today with my mummy and my sister, so… blah. Colour me tired. And I have to write really fast because there is exactly one chapter and a half finished one separating us. If it comes down to me panicking I may have to divide the next chapter into sections to post because you guys really don't want me getting pressured. Do you? And seeing as how if I post 34 next week and have nothing to post the week after – the time between updates will grow!! GROW EXPOTENTIALLY and I shall hate it, and you guys shall hate me. But I'll try my very hardest to write fast, I just have to finish the rest of 35 and write 36, because 37 is pretty much finished. (Couldn't wait to write that chapter.) Anyways. _:wanders off: _I love you all by the way. Never stop sending the wonderful love and support and feedback, and I shall reply as soon as possible.

Mwah. Pixc.


	34. The Sacrifice Of Hiding In A Lie

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34. The Sacrifice Of Hiding In A Lie

_The most important of life's battles is the one we __fight__ daily in the silent chambers of the soul._

_-- David McKay_

You woke up with your head on Dean's chest, his arms around you, blinking in the yellow-white glare of early morning sun, warm and relaxed straight down to your bones. Your eyes blinked open slowly, flickering kisses of your lashes on your cheeks, and you met the side of Dean's face. All you could see was the stubble on his chin, and his tanned skin, and all you could taste was last night's stale beer, and last night's dinner. But a quiet smile was tweaking the corners of your mouth. Your nose was squashed against his larynx, right under his jaw-line, and you were breathing the sleepy-musky-sweet Dean smell, eyelashes fluttering, far too contented and happy. You couldn't help feeling that nagging 'belonging' sensation. It was pulled over you like the worn sheets, comfortable and weightless, snugly and cosy and close and homely.

For a moment you wondered why your whole body felt heavy and achy, why your head was stuffed full of cotton wool, and your eyes were scratchy and sore. It felt as though you'd been sick for a month. _What the hell had –? _

_Oh_.

And then you kind of _remembered_, memories of tears and condolences and words thick with meaning came tumbling into your head, and although you were still spooning Dean, your arms wrapped around him tight for purchase and reassurance on the skinny bed, you knew that you wouldn't let it last.

You knew that, considering how you'd acted last night, you should definitely not be this at ease. You should be jumping out of bed, and rushing around, getting rid of all the evidence of what had happened – the tissues, the bloodshot eyes – and just generally acting as though you hadn't become a total pathetic lump of weeping woman. You should be acting as though nothing had happened at all, so that things could go back to normal, so you could pretend that everything was fine, that nothing had changed, _really_, and you hadn't spilled out your whole sordid history out onto his chest. Pride, rising thick and fast in your head, a spinning torrential tsunami, demanded it. And besides, that would be the best way to deal with – with everything.

The fight, the confession.

And the almost-not-quite-you-really-wanted-to-but-he-didn't kiss.

Which you weren't going to think about, ever again. Could you have been more clingy and embarrassing and vulnerable and obvious? No, you don't think so.

So, stifling a reluctant groan, and the urge to kiss that delectable, half open mouth, you did. You slipped out of his arms, out of the bed, and started picking up the scattered, wadded up tissue paper balls, and threw them in the bin. You had a shower, being as loud as you humanely could, singing – _make a joke and I will sigh, and you will laugh and I will cry – _then stopping when the irony hit you. _God. Fucking Black Sabbath._ You got dressed and came out soon after that.

The note said he was going for coffee, and he'd be back in fifteen.

When he did come back – _sixteen minutes, and thirty eight seconds later_ – _not that you'd been counting – _you took the cup, smiled, and he nodded back, went into the bathroom and closed the door.

You tried to tell yourself you were glad, _fine_ – he hadn't meant it how it _felt_, like he was slamming the door in your face – and you didn't think about his wet, shining, naked, golden body, dripping with water, sleek, supple muscles gliding with movement as he rubbed soap _all_ _over_ _it_.

_No, sir. _

Nor did you start wishing for another shower – one that was freezing cold.

Or with him.

000

"Hey?"

"Yeah?" _Don't look at the miles of exposed skin above a too-small motel towel. Don't look. Don't look. Don't – oh, damnit. _

"Chuck me that shirt?"

_You chuck the shirt. _"Happy?"

"Not even close, Princess." _Wink. _

_Raised eyebrow. _"Princess? What does that make you?"

"Why, isn't it obvious? With my charm and good looks –"

"Oh, of course!" _Pause._ "You're a shoe in for the frog."

000

You all piled into the Impala, quiet – _which was normal_ – bleary – _normal_ – and as cold as ice – which _wasn't_. It's not that everyone was shivery, or it was snowing, or whatever. It was the atmosphere – it was _her._

Oh, she wasn't acting that much different from normal; it's not like she ignored you, didn't say anything to you, didn't look at you, gave you the cold shoulder, or anything like that. No, to the casual observer it'd look absolutely normal, unstilted. To an outsider, everything was fine.

She was nice, she was polite; she was pleasant, she smiled – all as per usual. But still, there was a subtle difference, one undetectable to the naked human eye, one that wasn't aided by years of knowledge and sensitivity to the reactions and moods of others. It was barely discernible, just – just _something. _

What she wasn't was _herself_.

You were sitting in the car _next to her_, on the back seat, maybe _one foot away from each other_, like you'd been for_ over four months now_, and before that _six years_, and she was acting as though _you were a stranger_. She gave you this blank smile whenever you said something to her, this void, empty thing that made you bite your lip so hard on the inside it bled, because that's how much it hurt, and you had to make the pain physical so it'd stop clawing at your inner lining. It's not like you expected everything to be normal, or anything – not after last night. But for her to treat you like this? It was worse than if she'd yelled at you, or ignored you, or something. Like she'd completely blocked you off. Like she didn't feel anything.

You fidgeted on the upholstery, smooth leather shifting beneath your thighs and worn blue denim, and stared even harder out of the window, as though it had the answers all your questions, but was holding back. The scenery slipped by on a continuous, too-familiar loop; trees, field, road, car, car, trees, field, car, road, car, town, car, car, car, person, car, people, trees, houses, field, bridge, body of water, road – and you blinked, blinked again, willing away the climbing urge to scream, or maybe cry some more. It was too quiet, _too fucking quiet_, and it didn't help that Dean hadn't changed the tape from last night, so Blue Oyster Cult was playing still.

"_I turn my hopes up to the sky; I'd like to know before I die. Memories will slowly fade, I lift my eyes and say – come on, take me away…" Take Me Away._ _Fuck_, you thought, _if there was anything more suitable, you didn't know it._ _Damn you Dean. Change the tape – change it – change it – change it. _Maybe if you kept sending him telepathic instructions he'd eventually receive them, and you wouldn't have to say anything out loud, wouldn't have to make a big deal out of something that was, essentially, absolutely nothing. Meaningless.

You sighed, rubbed the creases drawn between your eyebrows, rolled your tongue against the roof of your mouth. It tasted like peppermint and coffee – fresh bitterness, you had to think, irony stinging yet again – and the only thing you could smell was this permeating, overbearing, heart wrenching sadness – which is stupid because sadness doesn't have a _smell_. You contemplated this for a minute – if it did, what _would_ it smell like? The first thought that popped into your head was forgotten cookies in the sun – _what the fuck_, you thought – and then rain – and then winter. Then you got hit in the sinuses with a barrage of other, more familiar smells; the warm, fruity scent of her hair when it was shoved up right under your nose, various hand and skin creams, and sage, which she always burnt to purify and protect the motel rooms you stayed in.

You glanced over at where she sat – that one foot away, that one foot that felt like it could rival the _galaxy_ – and studied her. She was reading a novel, some crime-fiction piece, you were sure, because that was her favourite genre, always had been. One knee was tucked up against her body where she leant against the door, the other lost behind her backpack, her head resting back on the glass, black hair trailing over a shoulder. Slim hands gripped the cover of the book, not too tight, not giving evidence to the tension – just like the rest of her. Face calm and relaxed, chocolate eyes trained on the book like there was nothing else around her, nothing else going on.

She looked normal, like this was just another day, like nothing had happened.

You hated that.

000

"Lauren, can I talk to you?"

"Sam, no."

"Look, it's important –"

"Sam, I said no. No means _no_, puppy. I know what _'it's'_ about, and I happen to think its _un_important, and also _none _of your business. At all."

_Irritated puppy. _"It _is_ my business when it affects the two of you like this. You have to –"

"I don't _have_ to do anything. _You,_ however, could take your head out of the ass of that high horse and realise that no one asked you to stick your nose in this. Alright? Let's not do this. Ever." _Pause_. "Please."

_Sigh. _"Lauren…" _Pause. _"You both have no idea how this is messing the other up, do you? God, you can be just as oblivious Dean, sometimes." _Spike of hand through messy chocolate hair._

_Slow, calm pull of coffee. Deliberate, drawling representation of the older boy's voice;_ "So, what's our next hunt, geek boy? Anything good?"

"I've been checking up on some leads down in Colorado. All women, apparently committing suicide by chucking themselves off of the church. There've been five in the past two weeks. All between the ages of twenty and thirty."

"Safe to say we can rule out the mid-life crisis then, right? Unless they have to deal with guys like you and Dean on a daily basis." _Big wink. Stretched white smile. _"Any theories?"

"Can't rule out a vengeful spirit, though I haven't found any hard evidence yet." _Small, chagrined pause._ "You gonna finish that?"

_Slides over the plate, and barely nibbled at pancakes. Real smile. _"Nah." _Pause, as he cuts a perfect brown square, pops it in his mouth, and chews. Reluctant curiosity; _"What did she tell you, Sam?"

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it?" _Puppy's smug undertone goes undisguised by sip of latte._

_Picks agitatedly at the torn packets of Sweet and Low. _"I don't. Was just wondering."

"You can't have it both ways, Lauren."

"Jeez. Forget I said anything, then."

_Long, weighted pause. Both stare out window, avoiding each others' eyes. _

_Quiet, sincere voice. _"You should apologise."

"No, Sam. No. Why do I have to? Huh? Why can't she? You're only –" _Cut yourself off, bite your tongue, bite back the cold anger. Betrayal. Stare at blue, formica table top. Look up and fake negligence. _"So, how long will it take to get to Colorado, do you think?"

000

"What were you and Sam talking about?"

"We have a new hunt."

"Oh yeah? Where is it?"

"Colorado."

"Geek boy got any theories?"

_Concealed smile. _"Nah."

"Right. Better get cracking then." _Pause. _"You gonna finish that?"

000

You watch as the easy camaraderie everyone has shared for the past few months goes up in a puff of ill-advised smoke, and hate yourself. Hate her. Feel like it's all her fault – _no, no_. No. You're both to blame, and you've accepted this. If only there were some way you could both apologise, at the same time – perfect synchronised _'Sorry'_s. You could do that. It'd be fair, equal, that way. It wouldn't be giving in, showing weakness. It wouldn't be baring yourself to her, letting her see how much you care about this, when she obviously couldn't give a flying fuck.

Of course, that's kind of ridiculous, and very, very unlikely to ever happen – the simultaneous admissions of guilt. You can't exactly say to her, 'Apologies on three?', and then count down. It'd show that you're ready to – and what if she isn't? Or what if she doesn't say it with you? What if she doesn't want to make up? What if she's just biding her time, watching out for a cheap car that she can purchase and leave in? This thought, of course, had you covertly checking whatever sections of the newspaper she read, and obsessing. Because she wouldn't be as blatant as to look at them in front of you, would she? And she could always just leave on a train, or hitchhike, or take a fucking _bus_. For the bazillionth time today you sigh, dig a thumb into your right temple and lick dry lips, thinking wistfully of cherry-flavoured lip balm and mouths that aren't cracked and flaking.

_Don't look at her._

This whole thing – it's all too messed up. Been one day, and you're already stretched to breaking point by the tension, the way everyone's reacting to each other. Some of it isn't obvious and in your face and overt. No, in fact, when you think about it objectively, and big-picture-like, most of it isn't. It's just the little snaps and chips that are showing in your every day life that has a headache pounding and screwing around in your brain like starved nymphomaniacs.

Take, for instance, the way Dean was reacting to Sharika. There was no _palpable_ snarkiness; only this underlying shortness in his tones, his answers, his body whenever he talked to her. Where there used to be slow, relaxed smiles, sarcastic-amused raised eyebrows, and slumped, tensionless muscles when he talked to her, there was now an almost contained electric air about him. It sparked at your fingertips like static, whenever the two of them got too close, had to talk to each other, had to interact. Of course, you only noticed this whenever they couldn't avoid each other like oil and water, like vampires and guillotines, werewolves and silver bullets, psychics and haunted houses, Superman and Kryptonite. When he couldn't use Sam or you as a buffer, use the two of you as mediums for getting something from her, or asking her for something, stuff like that.

Then again, maybe you were just imagining it. Maybe your bias was affecting you for the umpteenth, hopelessly-optimistic time, because why the hell would he be acting like that? It's not as though he had a concrete reason. Besides your attitudes affecting his temper, the hunt, the atmosphere, maybe. Although you have been trying to keep the _go-and-die-you-fucking-ungrateful-selfish-bitch_ to a minimum. It's not as though he was a little pissy on _your _behalf, right? He wasn't bordering on the mad-with-Sharika, because she'd made you cry. Endlessly. All over his shirt, his chest, those hard, tanned muscles that rolled against your cheek as he breathed – _stop, now._ Although part of you wished that was the reason he was mad – for you. Because, hello? Yeah.

You rolled over on the motel bed, paper crinkling grumpily beneath your weight, and propped your chin on your palm, eying the other three hunters. Hazel green and gold orbs narrowed, seeing how close and in sync Sam and Sharika were, passing each other books and highlighters and erasers, with hardly a word spoken between them. She was leaning back against his bed, head in a thick book on local lore, and he was lying down, angled close to her as he studied the police reports of the 'suicidal' women _– your newest hunt_ – on his laptop, writing notes. Face line-free and relaxed – _he was doing one of his favourite things, essentially_ – and she, she was almost smiling as their fingers grazed, swapping a red pen for a blue.

You tore your gaze off of them and planted it on Dean, trying not to scowl at the picture you'd just witnessed. You used to do that with Sam too – be in perfect coordination like that, on the other side of Sharika usually, hardly needing to say a word before he knew what you wanted. You could be as obscure as, 'pass the mmmph', and he'd hand you the second victim's mother's report on her daughter's death, which had been the exact thing you had wanted. _Focus – Dean – focus on Dean. Don't think about them. Don't start to get mad over the fact Sammy was so much more solicitous to her than he was to you. That he always looked accusatory, whenever you said the slightest thing, made the most banal comment. Don't start – __start__? – wanting to shove writing materials up their noses, scramble their brains around, and bring them out through the nostrils. It's not practical, or possible, unless you switch the pens for hot pokers, and emulate the ancient Egyptians…right, Dean. Right. _He was balancing his chair on two legs, swinging back and forth slightly, humming Quiet Riot as he checked out the history of the local church, the book in his lap lying enviously close and snug to his abdomen. He also looked completely unperturbed, at ease; oblivious to the tense atmosphere you felt riding inside your flesh. _God, this was just getting fucking ridiculous. You were obviously seeing things that weren't there. Everyone was just fine, and angst-free and dandy; no one was really affected by this fight, this feud, but you and Sharika – mostly you, because, hell, just look at her – and it was dumb to want the boys to own opinions on it at all anyways. So –_

"Sam, ask Sharika to pass me the blue highlighter, would you?"

"Ask her yourself, Dean."

"Sam, kindly pass the highlighter to your brother."

_Huh. _You really hate it when you're right, and you'd have given almost anything to be wrong. It wasn't satisfying, confirming the fact that everybody felt the pressure, the fire, the underlying currents. Confirming the avoidance between Sharika and Dean –_seriously, could anyone possibly tell you what the hell and Satan's devil-nipple that was about? What was up her ass, anyways? She was probably just annoyed that he was getting involved in the fight in any way, appearing to have chosen your side, which he really hadn't and was really hypocritical because __Sam__ – oh god. _

This was fucking annoying.

000

Usually you shared a room with Sharika – it was the easiest way to go, as motels only supplied single or double rooms, and the boys didn't like to be split from each other – but right now it was a problem. As far as everyone was going to practically ignore the situation, no one was going so far as to push the two of you together, alone, this soon – not after what had happened just last night.

So when it came time to turn in, everyone kind of glanced at each other, shifty and uncomfortable. Trying not to make it obvious, trying to make it seem like nothing was going on, packing away the research with singular intensity, and you saw everyone's muscles stiffen that slightest bit with the rising tension in the atmosphere. Glanced at Sharika – your eyes met and you jerked them away again, looked down at your hands where they were twisting together in your lap. The knuckles were white and bloodless. Swallowing down the rising fear that the two of you would have to share a room, you peeked up at the boys from under dangling golden curls to see them sharing one of their speaking looks – exasperated and questioning. They'd been exchanging looks like that all day. More so than usual, even.

Although Dean had been pretending not to notice what was going on, he couldn't escape it now. No one could, although when he looked at Sam it was obvious he wanted to. He was giving Sam that look – the one that was all, 'Come on, do we _have_ to?', from under his eyebrows – and his mouth was turned down in the right corner, his jaw tight.

When he raised his eyes to the ceiling, shook his head and turned away from his brother, you felt inexplicably guilty – you were kind of thrusting the decision of what to do on both of them, and they'd never asked for the responsibility. If they decided that one of you was sleeping with each of them, so much the better, but if they decided that you'd sleep with her again, you weren't going to back down. Pride wouldn't allow it, despite how anxious you were to not go anywhere near her again. Not anytime soon, anyways. Maybe in nine and a half fucking eternities. Maybe.

You shared a room with Dean that night – and though this time it was in separate beds, and you spent half the night debating with yourself on whether to climb in with him, and the other half thinking about Sharika, you were still glad.

000

"Hey? Lauren? You awake?"

_Silence. Fake snore. _

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

000

_Today is a fat day_, you thought, staring down at your plate in what can only be termed 'oh _hell_ no' disgust. _Definitely a fat day. There is no thing any one could say in any language or dialect to get you to touch that. Ever. _

It was what the boys usually ordered; but this morning Dean had got it for _you_, in place of your customary Tuesday blueberry muffin, as there were no passably healthy foods left on this diner's menu, and you'd been in the toilet while they were ordering. Dude, seriously, the motel one would have almost been _preferable_ to the one here – at least there wasn't graffiti next to the mould on the tiles, a black scrawl telling you to go fuck yourself.

Next to you Dean was stuffing his mouth full and slurping burning coffee, utterly unconcerned, as he was trying to eat as fast as humanly possible. He wanted to hurry and get out of here so that the two of you could go and talk to Todd Hamming – the boyfriend of Asha Watson, the latest of the women to commit suicide off of the church. You were going through all the family and friends of the victims, trying to find a clue to what might have happened, before checking out the church itself.

You swallowed, and tried not to breathe in through your nose, staring down at the plate – it was – it was so – "Oh _god_," you groaned finally, and closed your eyes, put your hand over your mouth and nose, trying to stop gorge from rising in your throat. How could they bear eating it when you could hardly stand _looking_ at it?

"What is it?" Sam asked; glanced across the table top at you, eyes a little annoyed, like his tone had been, as he put another forkful of – of – _the_ _food_ in his mouth. His pink lips closing around the fork, teeth pulling the morsel off and onto his tongue made you almost dry heave, and you shook your head quickly, looking up at the ceiling.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," you muttered, cleared your throat and looked back down at him, finally, when you felt it was safe again. "It's just that – well, it looks like they put a bit of sausage in with my grease. That's just plain wrong."

"Funny," Sam said, rolled his eyes and got back to eating.

"Right. Well, I guess I'm just not eating today. Finished yet, Dean? I want to get out of here before I lose my dinner all over my breakfast."

"You don't want it?" Dean asked, and you shook your head, resigning yourself to another skipped meal, pushing the sausages, toast, scrambled eggs (that vaguely resembled something you'd seen a cat vomit the other day), fried tomato and bacon over for him to get rid of. You didn't really eat when you were feeling crap emotionally – well, either you didn't eat or you binged. Maybe you should be happy that Dean got you animal fat on a platter, with a side order of heart failure, because there was _no fucking way_ you'd be trying to stuff that shit into your body. _Maybe_ you should be thankful. But not right now, when your coffee wasn't even here yet. What the hell was taking that waitress so fucking long, anyway? Dean and Sam had _theirs_. It didn't take _five minutes_ to bring _a cup of coffee_ over to a _table_. Maybe it's because you don't have a penis, or you're not a Winchester, or you didn't try and flirt with her, with a wicked smile. Whatever – the point is that you're sure that if you don't get caffeine soon, you're going to either fall asleep again, shoot someone, or start screaming. _Loudly._ And the fact that you don't have a penis won't matter _then, _will it? When everyone's dead in a bloody heap on the white and black linoleum floor?

_Man_.

You fucking _hate_ mornings.

"So, remind me," you said slowly, giving the boys a dirty, trying not to envision their hacked up corpses sprawled along the ground, blood like ketchup all on their chests and soaked into their plaid shirts. You didn't want to start giggling manically. "Why did Sharika get to stay at the motel, and I had to drag my ass out with you two?" _Please, please god, don't let them tell you it's because they want to make a joint effort to get you to apologise or something. You swear, if they start in on you, you WILL scream. And maybe bite them. Hard. So they bleed and maybe finally get the message. A.k.a., FUCK THE FUCK OFF. _

"She was trying to crack the police password on their confidential files," Sam said around the rim of his cup, and took another sip of his overly-milky-sugary coffee. He studied you and said, "Besides, Dean needed someone to go with him. And we all know I'm more computer literate than you, or him. I'm better for helping Sharika out."

Was Sam calling you stupid or something? Saying you were more cut out for all the legwork, for all the physical jobs? What the fuck? In the _morning_? _Before_ _coffee?_ Was the bitch _trying_ to get a face full of fist? This just reminded you again why you were angry at the snarky little dickhead. He was insulting you to cover up his own desires to spend time with _her_, to be on _her_ side, to _abandon_ you, just because he fucking _loves_ her _more_ than you – you sighed, nodded, smiled widely. You were just being stupid – that and a combination of your anti-before-noon brain made you a whiney little freak. Sharika needed a friend – she had Sam. Like you had Dean. Kind of. It wasn't fair of you to want him to back you up when he had his own opinion, and everything. And it's not like you needed him hanging around, whinging at you about how selfish you were being by not kissing her ass and asking for forgiveness, or whatever. And it's not like he was being particularly _horrible_ to you. Not like he was treating you all that different to how he treated _her_ – okay, well, he was a little shorter to you than usual, not as accepting of your quirks, and easier to piss off, and sometimes he didn't look at you when he was speaking to you, which he always does otherwise, because he has that whole sincere and earnest thing going on, and that really hurt because Sam not acting like himself to you just because he was a little tool in puppy love and didn't even –

"Alright, you done?" Dean asked, swiped his napkin over his mouth, swallowed the last of his coffee, and stood, stepping out of the booth. You just raised an eyebrow at him, internally glad that he'd stopped your rant from becoming vocal, instead of just mental. "Good. Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam said, pushed his plate away, and slid over so he could get out too; you did the same, snagging a couple of sugar sachets so you could put them in your coffee. Dean nodded at you, passed over a couple of crumpled bills from out of his brown leather jacket, and stalked out of the diner with Sam.

You went and paid, and got your drink as the boys got in the Impala – being nice, and smiling and thanking at the matronly woman when she finally handed it over, instead of yelling at her about the poor service and holding your baby – you mean, _your_ _coffee_ – hostage. You popped the plastic lid off, ripped the sugar packets open with your teeth before pouring it into the black liquid, stirring it and taking a scorching hot pull, sighing with relief and walking outside with a decidedly chirpier bounce in your step. When you slid into the back you saw Sam had a paper bag on his lap, and asked him what was in it, trying to make peace and show interest, trying to show that you _weren't_ mad. You understood, really. You did. You even –

"Oh, it's just the last blueberry muffin," he said, completely offhand, not even looking at you. "For Sharika."

_Oh. Oh no, he did __not__ just say – _

_You're going to kill him. _

000

"What's got your panties in a twist?"

"Why are you so interested in my panties?"

_Smirk. _

"Uh huh. Frog. Anyways, I just tried to talk to Brodie – Asha's sister. Hopeless."

"You shouldn't put yourself down like that, Lauren."

"Shut up." _Hushed, impatient whisper._ "Look, she's not talking to me and I can't press; she's just lost her sister, for chrissakes. So I'll go and talk to her mom. See if we can get _anything_."

"Let's hope they're more helpful than the last dozen people we've talked to."

"Yeah. I doubt it, though."

"Yeah. What am I supposed to do while you schmooze the parentals?"

"Just stand there and try not to look delicious. I'm sure she'll come to you if you look appropriately crushed and heartbroken. Who could possibly resist?"

"I knew you wanted me."

"Like a hole in the head, Dean. Like a hole in the head."

000

When you and Dean struck out on the families and friends of the women, you drove back to the motel – _The Boot Knocking_, of all things – and stopped by the room to ask if they'd uncovered anything more.

"Yeah," Sam said, nodded, gave the two of you his serious face. "It's happened before."

"Mind elaborating there, Granger?" Dean asked, plopped down on the opposite bed to where the Research Team were spread, Sam leaning back against the headboard with his laptop on his lap, Sharika cross-legged next to his feet, holding onto a stack of printed out sheets. You didn't look at her, and she returned the favour, instead passing the pages to Dean, who took them with an absent nod.

"Harry Potter, Dean?" you scoffed, and sat next to him. You couldn't help seeing the seating arrangement as connoting opposite sides; just as it stood in the fight. Although Dean saw both sides, really, so – _oh, what-the-fuck-ever_. You were just being idiotic again, seeing things as symbols, omens, whatever – things that _weren't really there_. Vaguely a thought entered your head about all the little signs you'd noticed before the fight, and how they _had_ actually pertained something – and then you just shook it out of you, hard. Misguided, overdramatic. You really were, weren't you? "I'm disappointed in you."

"Hey, it fits. Sam's totally a geeky girl with stupid hair."

"Lame."

"Shut up. Sam, what'd you find out?"

Sharika answered for him, pushing back a lock of hair and tucking it behind her ear, "It's happened only once before. Victoria Sumners, thirty two years ago, twenty fifth of March."

"That's two weeks ago – the time the new batch of suicides started, isn't it?" Dean asked, sitting up and you could almost see the snap of business mode settling over him, stiffening his muscles a little, imbuing him with the purposeful, determined atmosphere that you couldn't help but find adorable. Yeah, _Dean_. _Adorable_. No one'd _ever_ hear you admit _that_ out loud though; you'd never live it down. Sam and Sharika nodded in confirmation to his question, and Dean rubbed his hands together, glanced at you and smirked. You blinked at him, making the connection yourself as he thought aloud. "Looks like we've got an angry spirit on our hands, boys and girls. Alright, so where's the bitch buried?"

"One problem," Sam said, and shared a look with Sharika that had sugar plum visions of chainsaws and headless love birds dancing in your head. Ah, violent visions. Another of your wonderful coping devices. Possibly your favourite. "She committed suicide, so the church wouldn't allow her to be buried in their cemetery. She'd sinned, by taking her own life – no other church would have anything to do with her, or her body. What was left of her after the fall was cremated."

"Oh, come _on_," Dean said, ran a hand through his hair so it all stuck up and looked ridiculous. _He really __has__ to learn to tone down on the gel_, you thought, and grinned to yourself, tying down the urge to run your own hand through the short strands, bring his face to yours and lick the tip of his freckled nose. It wouldn't really help the situation, _at all_, but it might make you feel a little better. "Have we ever found a way to waste them but the whole salt and burn ritual? No. Come on, Sam. Is there _any_ part of her left? Hair, clothing – there has to be something to burn."

"We checked," Sam said, shaking his head, and Sharika did the same, both of them contrite, glancing at each other to make absolutely sure. "Dude, we'll just have to think of something else. There's nothing."

"So, in other words, you guys didn't really find anything _useful_," you couldn't help sniping, then bit your lip to hold in your knee jerk reaction – the instinct to apologise and blame it on the fact that you'd had to deal with over a dozen grieving people already today, none of which who had been any help. It was true – even if there was more to it. The fact that you were steadily getting more and more pissed at Sam, and you were already rubbed raw and bleeding by Sharika. So instead of letting out a quiet 'sorry', you just sat there, raised your eyebrow as though waiting for them to deny your statement.

_God, you really could be a bitch, sometimes. _

"Well, did _you_ find out anything at all?"

You opened your mouth to snap back a reply at Sharika, but Dean got in first. "No, unfortunately. All of them were busts – speaking of which, maybe I should go back and see that last one again. Miss, what was it, Mulligan? Seriously Sam," he said, and made an obscene gesture around his pectorals, to indicate the size of Miss Mulligan's mammary glands. _So what_ if she'd had huge breasts? She'd also had a huge _nose. _"I'd interview her again anytime."

Sam just rolled his eyes and you rolled _your_ eyes – tried to ignore the fact that Sharika was doing the same, and that if you weren't fighting with her the two of you would be sharing a smile and bitching at Dean about how he objectified women. Oh, and then the two of you would probably share a laugh and some stupid joke about how big both of your own pairs of breasts were – it was just something the two of you did. Weirdly enough it was customary interaction in your life, between the four of you.

At least, it _used_ to be.

You fucking missed it.

"Okie dokie then," you said, pushed off the bed and made your way to the door, wanting to escape the situation again, before you did something you'd regret. Like ask her for another chance, or to stay with you, or to excuse you for being such a bitch, maybe. "Where to next, Malfoy?"

"Malfoy?" Dean asked, walking over to you, getting the keys to the Impala out of his pockets as the other two dug for their shoes behind him. He gave you an incredulous look that you just blinked at innocently. "What the hell?"

"Oh, _come_ _on_ Dean. It _totally_ fits." You paused, flicked a glance up at his tousled locks. "He's the only blonde idiot."

000

"Do we have to talk about this?"

"Talk about what?" _Weighted, meaningful pause. Sigh. _"I'd really rather we didn't."

"Yeah."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You just missed the turn off."

000

They were cute together; you had to admit that, no matter how your bias affected your judgement. He, so tall with his All-American good boy vibe, and his wide smile, she with her slim brown curves and _lack_ of height – she was exactly as tall as you were – which you _didn't_ like to think about. She was _short. _This meant you were too, which you hated admitting, because it left the way open for Dean to start calling you 'pipsqueak' and 'midget' again.

You watched them as they talked to a little boy and his mother – their dog had just bounded up to sniff Sharika's sneakers, and she hadn't taken it so well. She was deadly afraid of dogs – bad experience from her childhood. Long story short, she'd kind of screamed and run behind Sam. The dog, thinking she was playing with it had followed her, barking, and they'd started a game of Ring Around The Sasquatch, until the mother and boy had called the dog to heel. Sharika was still standing a little behind him, covertly holding onto the back of his plaid over shirt.

It seemed she'd replaced you in no time. You remembered countless occasions that sort of thing had happened to the two of you; practically any time you came into contact with any kind of canine being, in fact. Felt a stab in your stomach that you refused to acknowledge, even in your own head.

You could tell she was glad that Sam was there for her – to protect her, not only from the dog, but from you. He was there to support her when you weren't, he was her white knight on a steed, her rock in the storm, and she appreciated his solicitousness, the caring attitude he'd been presenting her with. The antithesis to how he treated you, really. Uncaring and almost cold, definitely not all understanding eyes and nodding and the _Listening Intently_ face. No _sir_, with Sam and you it was all barely contained snapping and bitchiness, like you were the ones in the fight, and Sharika was his old friend from South Bum-fuck, Minnesota. Some random person in the fight, at least, because that's how _she_ was acting to _you_. It really was as though you were brother and sister – and Sharika was his girlfriend. It was an attitude you simultaneously hated, and were envious of. Dean – well, he acted as though absolutely nothing had happened between the two of you. He acted the same to you as always, ruffling your hair so it fell into your eyes, teasing you mercilessly, chucking leaves at you. It was discouraging, but bizarrely comforting at the same time.

God, you didn't know what to think about anything anymore. You just knew that when you watched the two of them smile, and walk away from the mother and her little boy, footsteps in sync and measured, perfect for them to walk together comfortably, you felt the back your eyes sting, and had to blink, hard, to clear it.

You were losing them – and you couldn't stop it, couldn't stop yourself from letting it happen. Sometimes, you really hated yourself. Right now was one of those times – but you hated _them_ just as much.

Them, and their false, bright carelessness.

000

"Lauren?"

"Yes Dean?"

"I – are you going to eat that?"

_Swap of salad sandwich for corndog._

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Never mind." _Crunch. _

000

After lunch in the park, the four of you headed over to the house Victoria Sumners used to live in. Her old boyfriend still lived there, and you couldn't really blame him. It was a nice place – a pretty, white washed two story with big windows and a green door – and sometimes people used anything they could to remind themselves of the person they'd lost. Or, alternatively, looked after their loved one's properties to assuage their own guilt. Then again – hey, maybe he just had nowhere else to go.

You knocked on the door, slapping on your 'ditz' expression – it was always easier to get information out of people if they thought you were stupider than they were – and waited for Mr Jesse Ramsis to open it, running through your cover story in your head, to make sure you had it down pat. The four of you were here to ask about his reading group, which you'd heard about at the library, and to ask him a few questions about it all. Which was kind of weird – because of all the lies you'd had to tell yet, in your whole hunting career – that you were a cop, a lawyer, an electrician, a fucking _mascot_ – you'd never once had to pretend to want to be part of a _reading_ _group_. You were definitely letting Sam lead the way with this one – while fervently wishing that Dean had taken the time to change out of his leather jacket, and into something a little nerdier looking. You know, just a little less butch and biker-like.

Then again, you couldn't talk. You were wearing your 'I'm Here For The Moustache Rides' t-shirt, and a pair of jeans that might have been painted on, they were so close to your skin. What? It wasn't your fault, you'd just felt in the mood for a bit of attention today – and boy, had you ever got it. From everyone _but_ the person who mattered, who you wanted it from. You'd been finding excuses to bend over in front of him all day – endless, lame ass ones, like tying up your shoelaces, and 'oh, look! Oops! I dropped my pencil/sugar packet/dignity!'. You hadn't gotten so far as the Bend and Snap, but you might soon, because it was like he hadn't even fucking noticed. At all. You hadn't got any kind of reaction. Not _once_.

Maybe you weren't being obvious enough. After all, Dean didn't _actually_ have a moustache. Suddenly you got a vision of him with one in your head – a big, blonde, hairy handlebar moustache that'd make even a walrus envious.

You were snickering into your hand when someone opened the door.

And then you kind of choked.

Oh. _Oh_. Hot.

You're pretty sure your brain was dribbling out your ears, and maybe your eyes were on the floor, along with your chin. This guy was – he was the personification of tall, dark and handsome. Every girl's James Bond, dangerous-good-guy fantasy wrapped up into a six foot one, raven-haired, lankily muscled package, with blue lightning eyes, and a pair of lips that made you immediately wish that you weren't irrevocably in love with the prick standing next to you.

God, what he could _do_ with that mouth.

"H-hi," you managed to get out, your voice gone all deep and breathless, and your hand went up on automatic to tuck some hair behind your ear, smooth down the side to the neckline of your shirt. His eyes followed the trail. "You're not Mr Ramsis, are you?"

"God, no," he said, and laughed, throwing his head back to show the strong tendons in his neck, his voice sending pleasant tingles all the way down your back to pool near your stomach. God, there were just some men on this earth that made lust _tangible_; made sex spring to mind as quickly as rabbits bred. Dean was one of them – so was this guy. Who ever he was. You wondered if – no, no. That was ridiculous. Just because you were sexually frustrated and desperately in need of some uncomplicated human contact did not mean that you'd allow yourself to have your way with this guy. You knew you'd regret it afterwards, because, yeah. _Dean_. _Right_. Just keep reminding yourself about that. "Mr Ramsis is my father. You can call me Adam."

"Lauren," you said, and held out your hand. Of course, when he took it, you realised it might not have been the smartest move. Good, old fashioned desire streaked up and through your arm like an arrow straight to your groin. _Goddamnit_. Do _not_ want to be feeling this. At all. Because there'll be _no way_ for you to work it out, it's not like Dean would even consider – wait a sec… work it out… hey, would a gym membership help? Maybe you could go to the fitness centre in town and – oh, right, they're waiting for you to actually _speak!_ Slowly you retracted your hand, trying to keep your cool; you'd not even been shaking it anymore, just holding onto the tanned, warm skin as he smiled down at you with those devastatingly blue irises. "We're here to talk to your dad about joining his reading group?"

"Really?" he asked, quirked a dark eyebrow. More heat. _God_, and you thought only _Dean_ could turn you on with an _eyebrow_. Maybe that's another of your fetishes – you know, along with the freckles, and the way he pokes his peas around on his plate, pretending to eat them. And the way he cleans his guns. Oh, and the way – "You don't look the type."

_Was he – was he –? _"Is that so?" you asked, shifting your stance so it became openly receptive and flirtatious, smiling up at him from under your eyelashes. _Too easy_, you thought, when he slid his eyes over you, and smiled back. "What type do I look then, Mr Ramsis?"

"Adam," he said, firmly. "And I'm not quite sure yet, though I'd love the opportunity to find out." Then, flicking his eyes at the three fidgeting hunters behind you, "Please come in."

"'Bout time," you heard Dean mutter, as Adam moved out of the way to let us by, and you jabbed him with your elbow in his side. _Rude. _"Ouch! Bitch!"

"Dick!" you whispered back, then smiled widely at Adam to cover when he glanced back.

"If you guys will just come this way, I'll get my dad for you. My mother and I were visiting him today."

You followed this statement up with a banal question, and the two of you talked back and forth as he led you deeper into the house, pausing only to whisper something to his mother as she passed by. When the five of you finally halted outside a pair of closed white doors, you'd come to the conclusion that Adam Ramsis was just your type – too close to being just like Dean – _minus the shotguns and spirits, you're pretty sure_ – for comfort. _Goddamnit_. Why couldn't you be attracted to an innocent, sweet sort for once? Maybe a librarian, or a doctor, or something. Why did you have to like the funny, smart-mouthed _assholes?_

"Thanks," Sam said, as Adam opened the door, and sidestepped to let the four of you enter the room. Sharika nodded at him, and Dean shot him a glance that you couldn't quite discern, before sweeping in after the other two. You smiled at him, and made to go in yourself, mind starting to metamorphose into the hunter side of you, when he put his hand on your shoulder and you paused, peeked back and up at him.

"Hey, I think your friends have got this one. You want to get some dim sum?"

You had to grin, "Is that a come on, Mr Ramsis?" before pulling your features down into a rueful expression. And not a fake one. You'd have Chinese cuisine off of this guy – uh, you mean, _with _this guy – any day of the week. Under different circumstances. "Sorry," – _uh, uh, come on! Excuse!_ – "My boyfriend isn't exactly known for his forgiveness." _What the hell were you thinking? No, seriously Lauren, what the fuck? Boyfriend? Boyfriend?! _

"Boyfriend?" Adam asked, his face falling a little, before he plastered a grin back on. "The blonde dude?" _Uh… _"I thought as much. Can't blame a guy for trying, though, right?" _Just nod. Just smile and keep nodding. _"You'd better…" he gestured at the door, and you nodded again, went inside. _Stupid Dean. If you didn't love him you could have just had some seriously hot, no-strings sex, with a guy that could make George Clooney's number one fan swoon. Well okay, almost. As far as you knew, Adam didn't have a gun or fight vamps. And would probably look stupid with one, trying to, anyway._ You closed off this line of thought with the quiet snap of the door behind you, looking around. The other three were talking to a man in the centre of the room, who looked to be about – what? Fifty, sixty? But still in good condition. You could totally see where Adam had gotten his good looks from. Jesus. God must be in a _really_ shitty mood with you today; all these temptations, no foreseeable satisfaction.

"Young lady, I hope my son wasn't giving you too much trouble?" he asked, quirking up his white brows, giving you a twinkling smile that immediately made you think of a Calender Santa Clause, and berate yourself senseless. For one thing, uh, _gross_ – he could have been your father. For another thing…uh, yeah, you have nothing.

_God-fucking-damn you Dean. _

As you walk over you seriously consider making up some crap excuse to pull Dean away with you so you can ravish him, because although you _are_ finding the Ramsis' attractive, its Dean you really want, and the lust is just spilling over onto innocent bystanders. You smile at Mr Ramsis instead, ignoring the dark looks the other three hunters send your way, pissed-off-ed-ness evident in their very _aura_. Talk about stick-up-the-ass, PMSing, whiny, just-cause-_they're_-not-getting-any, people-who-are-_meant_-to-be-your-friends-but-are-really-just-_dicks_ people. Jeez. It's not like you actually _went _with Adam, right? So what the hell is their problem? Yeah, _now_ you're in a bad mood. Oh ye shalt all feel the wrath of Lauren. Later. Hunt, now. Smite, later. Right. Right. _Fuck_ you're angry. And you don't even know why. Okay, yeah, you do. Sexual frustration and pretty much fighting with everyone you love is _the_ _pits_.

"Why, _no_, Mr Ramsis," you say, throw him your sweetest, most guileless look from under lowered lashes. Sincerity clings to you like an overpoweringly sugary perfume, so strong you want to choke. "Not at all. He simply invited me to partake of some Chinese food with him."

"Give the boy a prize," Dean bit out under his breath, and Mr Ramsis smirked up at him – and it was then you first realised he was in a wheelchair. You could have slapped yourself. Talk about _unobservant_ – or maybe it's just the fact that Jesse Ramsis' presence took over his obvious disabilities, making them pale in comparison. Or maybe you're just making excuses. You don't know. But now you feel weird, like now you've noticed you can't just treat him like any other person you interview on a hunt – which is stupid because you know that people in wheelchairs are no different from anyone else…you just can't help it.

"Boy, you have to learn to get that jealous streak of yours under control," he said, and winked at you. He had Adam's eyes. Not as melt-your-fucking-bones as some hazel green, long lashed, fallen angel ones you could mention, but definitely heart stopping and wow. _"Jeal-"_ Dean started to squawk, but Mr Ramsis interrupted, waving his hand with indifference to Dean's words, denials. "Now, what are you really here about? I know the type that would join my reading group on advanced psychiatric, psychological, and behavioural studies, and you four aren't it. Okay," he said nodding grudgingly and indicating Sam with another wave of his hand, who looked mildly affronted at the next offhand comment, "Maybe you. But you three?" You glanced around at the other two, Dean and Sharika – Dean, in his brown leather jacket and torn up jeans, biker boots, looking completely unrepentant for his attire, Sharika, in her soft green hoodie and black jeans, a little uncomfortable under the unexpected scrutiny, but still somehow managing to look like an extra from the Mean Girls, then down at yourself, with your own skin-tight jeans and snappy 'Moustache Rides' blue t-shirt. "Forget it."

"Isn't that a little stereotypical, Mr Ramsis?" Sam asked, features creasing momentarily into his amused-without-meaning-to-be face, the one that usually cropped up when Dean was being undeniably funny, but still an ass, before he hid it back inside his earnest look, raising an eyebrow at the older man. Too bad his act was kind of screwed over, with the words his brother spoke in unison with him.

"We're here about Victoria Sumners."

"Ah, Tori," Mr Ramsis said, sadness pleating his already wrinkled face, tucking the lines closer together to spread out his memories like trails on a map – here lies grief, sorrow, laughter. He closed his eyes and seemed to droop into himself a little, gnarled fingers toying with a large, chunky gold heart locket that is splayed across his chest, looking more like his age as he shrinks back until he seemed smaller all over. You felt a stab of anger at Dean – to confront him like this, almost, it was cruel. It may be thirty-two years later, but if you love someone, you're not just going to get over it. Not if they killed themselves. You just don't forget traumatising shit like that, as all of you well knew. The way he'd initiated this topic – it was almost callous, cold. You wondered fleetingly if the fight was affecting him this much, that even his hunt approach was stiffer. And then guilt kind of swirled in with the anger, until you felt ridiculous. God, maybe he was just – you don't know why he'd be acting this way. Maybe he's tired, or fed up. And you don't know how the talk was going until you entered after Adam had been talking to you. Maybe Jesse had been, oh, for chrissakes, you don't _know_. To immediately come to the conclusion that it was based around you – that you could affect his job – _ugh, you're so fucking egotistical sometimes. _You have to –"Yes. What did you want to know, exactly?"

"How she died," Dean returned, without preamble, a stern visage to your right, drawn up and tense and all business. You flicked him a glance before turning your gaze back onto Jesse – not wanting to miss anything.

"She jumped off of the church belfry, as I'm sure you already know," the older man said, quiet and patient, a bang of white falling into his eyes, concealing his expression. The locket in his hand is turned over and over, the clasp fiddled with, and you wonder if it's a nervous habit.

"Yes, Mr Ramsis, but we want your version, not the newspaper's," Sharika requested quietly, trying to undo Dean's straightforward mode of questioning, trying to ease him into it, rather than use shock therapy on him. Her face was softened and sincere, eyes wide and chocolate brown, rousing trust and openness, as did the rest of her. You weren't sure if it was going to work now, if the damage could be undone. You watched the old man, waiting to see his reaction, hoping.

His fingers tapped agitatedly against the armrest of his wheelchair, drumming out a rhythm of some unknown emotion. You watched the blunt ends rise and fall to tap against the leather, almost falling into a trance, listening to his voice, coarse with the same pulse his fingers played. "I watched her do it – it was my fault." Hurt? Regret? Guilt? Anger? You can't decipher the tune properly. You feel tone-deaf to everything beating through the air around you, suddenly, as though the very universe is singing something you can't quite catch.

"You can't say that –" you hurriedly tried to reassure him, feeling horrible. Feeling everything, and nothing, and trying to ignore it all. It went on regardless, loud and unsteady in your eardrums. Maybe it was your heartbeat – had it ever been so noisy? Thundering as though its someone else's heart entirely, someone scared and aching, their old scars reopening. You stared down at Jesse Ramsis, and imagined that this must be how he was feeling, words falling out of your mouth uselessly. "I'm sure you couldn't have done anything, couldn't have stopped her. It's not your fault, she –"

"Please," he said, holding up a hand and almost smiling, though you could see he was anything but amused. He shook his hair back from his face and shot the four of you a piercing blue look, denying all your sympathy, and you knew you wouldn't be getting anything else. _Fuck. Now it's going to be a bitch to do this hunt – well, you know, more so than usual. Goddamnit, and it had looked like things were kind of going your way – in this quarter, anyway. The hunt – because everything else was all screwed to hell. But no. _"I don't need a stranger's platitudes. I know what the truth is." He sighed, and rubbed his forehead, shook himself and nodded at the door. "I shouldn't have – please leave my home."

"Mr Ramsis –" Sam started, but the older man snapped, almost shouting –

"Leave!"

So the four of you did.

"Dean!" Sharika confronted him outside, getting into his space in a way you would never have believed she would ever do, if you hadn't seen it for yourself. She was usually so composed, so easy and unaffected. Right now she was splitting at the seams, as she thrust her face up as close as it would get to his, anger zinging through her as obvious as an electric current. Her body was pulled tight, muscles under gleaming brown skin and green cotton standing out in slim lines, her eyes burning and jaw line tense. He didn't back down, squaring his shoulders and glaring straight back down at her, a tick flickering in and out of existence in his cheek. Stunned, you simply blinked at them, your hand still on the doorhandle of the Impala, halfway through the motion of opening the door. The metal was cold under your palm, melding lines into your skin, red stripes of pressure. "That was inexcusable, the way you treated that poor old man! How _dare_ you just say something like that outright, he –"

"I don't need your permission to do my job, Sharika!"

"No, but obviously you need a bit of guidance to do it _properly_! What did you think you were going to get from him, springing it like that? That he'd just tell you everything and send you on your way with a smile and a wave, maybe even a 'thank you Mr Winchester, for allowing me to unburden my soul'? He's carried whatever he knows around for over thirty years – he's not just going to let some stranger stride in and –"

"I don't see you doing any better, doing _anything_, for that matter, so why don't you stop being such a fucking hypocrite, and –"

"Sharika! Dean!" Sam said, getting between the two angry hunters, and their stupid quarrel, holding his wide-spread fingers up between them, two flesh coloured stop signs. You knew as well as he did they weren't really fighting over that – that scene back there, with Jesse Ramsis – they were fighting over whatever it was that had been going on between the two of them since your clash with Sharika. She resented however he'd been treating her, probably thought he was getting in the fight somehow, when she thought he should have nothing to do with it. He didn't like how she'd been acting like a bitch – whatever, it was all bursting into a fitful culmination right now, and here you were standing like a deer in the headlights, breathless and unsure.

_What…what were you supposed to do? Should you – what? Get in there with Sammy, be a road blocker? Stop them? Or should you just let them get this out, and stop it from overspilling later, maybe even at a crucial point? _You paused, poised, still holding tightly to the Impala for anchorage, staring at the three people locked in a struggle for dominance, each of them still with tension.

"Fine," Sharika said finally, snapping the silence in two over her knee as she held up her own hand, shook her head, whole body giving evidence to her exasperation and frustration. "Do it your way, and see where it gets you!" And she started striding down the street, not looking back once, steps long and fast, shoulders pulled taut and back straight. Her hands shoved themselves inside her hoodie, her head up high, and you gazed after her retreating figure, brain trying to catch up with the speed of events, and failing.

_Okay…What the hell?_ You feel as though if you had blinked you would have missed the entire episode; _had it even happened?_ You couldn't be sure, until Sam called out to her and she ignored him, so he started after her, long body eating up the ground quick and easy, and he reached her in no time, not saying anything, just walking by her side, from what you could see. You watched their disappearing figures as though still caught in the limbo you'd gone through watching Sharika and Dean snap at each other, still just blinking, motionless and cold in the wind.

"Lauren!" Dean barked, and you jumped, spun your head to face him. He was sliding into the driver's seat of the Impala, face strained, mouth clenched, purposefully not watching the two people leaving the two of you. "Get in the car!"

You shake your head, and finally let go of the handle, opening the passenger's side door instead, and getting in. He peeled off from the side of the road, and turned the car around to point in the opposite direction to Sam and Sharika. You turned your gaze out the window, hands flexing uncomfortably on your lap, until you looked down at them. Your right hand was white, and bloodless, but for the imprint of the cold metal on your palm – a wide cut of scarlet as dark as an accusation.

000

"Dean?"

_Silence. _

"Dean?"

_Louder silence._

"Look – I – I'm –" _Pause. Silence. Sigh. _"We should go back there; Ramsis was keeping something from us. We should find out what it is. This hunt is difficult enough already."

_Silence. The car makes a U-turn at the next roundabout. _

"Dean? You're being an asshole."

"I know."

000

When you'd had time enough to process the mini-explosion, you'd had time enough to worry why they weren't back yet. You kept your cool, didn't allow your internalised fears that they'd left – _really and truly, forever and ever_ – to consume you, by being as logical as personality allowed. All their worldly possessions, all their money, everything they owned except the clothes on their backs were right here, in this one motel room.

Oh, and you wouldn't let Dean drag you more than ten feet outside its confines.

You lay on Sam's bed, the pillow he'd slept on the previous night tucked under your armpits, chin propped up on your elbows, and pretended to be trying to piece together Victoria Sumners' life before her suicide. All to get a clue to why she might have done it, and why women these days were following her example. In actual fact, you were focusing all your attention on the white-painted, thin-as-all-fuck, wooden motel door, willing it telepathically to open and spew your friends onto the grey carpet. Thankfully, Dean, on the opposite bed, doing the same job in earnest, didn't notice.

_Come on, come on,_ you thought, tapping your fingers against the paper and cotton sheets in front of you, restless, eyeing the door as though it were about to leap out and bite you on the ass. Maybe if you thought hard enough the message would eventually be transmitted to them, and they'd come back, and this all-encompassing anxiousness could melt out of your limbs and into the mattress.

_They can't have gone – they just can't have, _you rationalised – or got as close as you ever did to rationalising – breaths starting to come faster, hard and harsh in your throat. _But what if they had? They've already been gone for – _you flick harried hazel green and golden eyes at the chunky black alarm clock next to you, red letters leaping out like blinking symbols of impending pain – _bordering on three hours now. Who's to say they'll ever be back? What was here that wasn't replaceable? Nothing. Clothes, guns, books, laptop, whatever. They could hustle pool and get money to buy more – and if Sharika's been looking around for that car like you thought, then their leaving wouldn't be as implausible as first thoughts denoted –_

Completely without warning, the door was opening, and Sam was stepping inside, tan jacket zipped up the front all the way to his jaw, brown hair dishevelled from the wind, cheeks pinked from the same element. You gaped at him, lips parting slightly, panting breaths stilling, eyes widening with disbelief. _He – he wasn't – oh, oh god. Sam – Sammy didn't – he's really – he's not – he isn't – _

"Oh, look who's finally decided to show," you bit out, all cold sarcasm and rolled eyes. Inwardly you winced at this instinctual show of carelessness, of disinterest. You could never show anyone they'd affected you, could you? You had to hide it. Sam would never know that mere seconds ago you'd been about two steps away from crying and falling to pieces, because you thought he'd left you without a single backwards glance, a single thought, a single qualm. Now it was as though you didn't care about his existence at all, or that you were just annoyed at him for not being here to do his job. You used this angle shamelessly, turning all your fear to anger. "You're just in time to do – oh, hey, nothing. Dean and I have already finished."

"That's good," he said absently, shutting the door and unzipping, running a hand across the back of his neck. Dean hardly even glanced at him, before going back to his research. You spared a thought to this – since when had Dean been so compliant to the information-based side of hunting? Usually he resisted all attempts made to get him to read more than he needed. Now he was doing it as though he was interested, or like – or like he was trying to distract himself. Huh.

"That's good? That's _good?_ Where have you fucking _been_ Sam?" you ended up snapping, worry held back until the words were strained and your voice thickened indistinguishably. You couldn't help thinking you sounded like some sort of concerned mother, telling their child off for staying out too late. _Goddamnit. You don't care, you don't care where he was, remember? It's not your problem, not your business, who cares what they were doing? Not you. Not you. No. No. Oh god, where is she? _

"Out," he said, sat in the chair by the door and ran a big hand through all his messy chestnut locks. He didn't even look at you, one wrist resting on his thigh, the other going up to brace him on the table. Totally relaxed and at ease.

_Fine, fine. Fucking FINE. _"Oh, okay then." You stood up from the bed, slipped your boots on and shrugged into your jacket, which you'd thrown down near your boots earlier, after toeing them off and slumping onto the pillows. You tucked hair behind your ears and made your way over to the door, making a conscious effort not to look at either of the Winchesters, or fist your hands. You just had to get out of here, now. You couldn't stand it – all that dread, and now his indifference. You were going to explode if you stayed here any longer, you just knew it. And it wouldn't be pretty like fireworks – it'd be gory, like a shotgun to the head at two paces.

"Wait, hey – where are you going?" Dean asked.

"Out."

000

"Hey. I thought you'd be here."

"You caught me."

"Yeah." _Pause. _"You alright?"

"You springing for caffeine and a doughnut?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm alright."

000

The church was like a lot of the others you'd seen in all your life of hunting; one of those old ones, with the basement crypts and second floor, a belfry – which was where the women had all thrown themselves off of – and wood everywhere, with that aged, pretty, worn look. It smelled like ancient incense and dust, and sunbeams slanted in through stained glass windows, high above the pews, giving the room this dusky, majestic, mysterious glow. It was beautiful, gave off the customary waves of peace and contentment.

And you had to fucking experience this squished inside the confession booth with Dean. Which, you know, meant absolutely _no_ space, cramped, sweaty bodies, panting breaths to keep yourselves quiet, and jostling continuously for better positioning with a guy who was not only bigger than you, but had an overheated, muscled, taut body that was sending a series of completely sinful, confession-booth-sex-inducing thoughts through your head. It was just _wrong_ to think of doing it in a church, in the _confession booth_ for fuck's sake – but it was kind of a kink of yours, and besides, it was _Dean_ and the idea made you continuously hot and bothered, and cranky, as did the proximity continuously thrust – _don't even think that word_ – upon you, whenever you two fought over who was watching the corridor for the priest to leave. Usually something along the lines of: _move. Shut up! He'll hear us! Dean – _and then a scuffle, with one of you ending up pressed against either the back or front of the other, and the wooden door or wall.

Okay, explanation.

All four of you had come to the church for your first scope of what was going down here for the hunt; Dean and you were going to get past the priests and anyone else here, and under the police tape to the belfry to check the place out with the EMF. Meanwhile, Sharika and Sam were the distraction – they were going to discuss having their 'wedding' here with the reverend. You'd been kind of miffed, somewhere in the back of your mind – because, _hello_ – that you and Dean couldn't fake the whole, 'happy and in love' routine, but hadn't really had any way to convey that without sounding like a whiny-assed little bitch, with issues. Which you were but still… it'd be weird if you complained about wanting to be a betrothed couple with Dean, holding hands and sharing smiles and leaning on each other, playing it up for the priest. Talking about how you wanted your wedding, where and when it would be, the ceremony and how everyone would stand. What to say, how to say it, whether there should be individual vows. What Dean might've said to you, if that were ever the case, his hazel eyes looking down into yours, all sincere and sweet and deep, holding your hands, mouth parting to tell you his very own words, ones that spoke his love for you, how long, and why, and always. And then you give yourself a sharp, violent mental slap. _Stupid, stupid – what the hell? Marriage? Faking marriage with Dean? God – NOT a good idea. _Besides, the Research Team could provide a far better diversion, as Sharika's religion – and thus, traditional wedding ceremony – was different from the Catholic one the church offered. She could use the excuse of wanting to mesh the two ideals together, and elicit the father's reluctant help. He was bit of a devout dickhead – on second thoughts you were kind of _glad_ you hadn't had to put up with him for more than the minute it took this morning to find out that the belfry had been labelled a crime scene and no one was allowed to go there. He'd given you the scornful down-the-nose look, which you'd later told Dean was because you'd misnamed one of the angels, even though it was _truthfully_ because you were wearing a skirt a _little _above the knee, and _maybe_ a top that screamed in orange 'Stop Staring At My Breasts…And TOUCH Them!' (You'd been in the mood for sexual-innuendo-slogan shirts lately, so what?) You still didn't get what his problem had been.

Besides, you'd rather not have been partnered with either of them, anyway.

In any case, the plan had started out well; Sam and Sharika had politely asked for a couple of minutes of his time – _read: as many hours as it takes for the other two hunters to get the job done_ – and you and Dean had snuck in and around into the back, making your way upstairs. And that's when it all went to hell in a hand-basket – a priest had been coming around the corner, and you were _kind of_ in a sealed off area, and _kind of _didn't want to get arrested, so Dean had _kind of _shoved you both into this tiny freaking confession booth,_ kind of_ mashing you up against the wall and his body. It just wasn't _fair_.

The irony was killing you – you'd been desperate before your own personal admission – the telling Dean all about your stupid, tragic past thing. And then yesterday with the whole, hot Adam Ramsis episode. And then all that building, pent up frustration about the issues you were having with your family – Sam and Sharika. If he just let you – you knew you'd be mellower, more understanding. Sex did that to you, made you more malleable and bending and flexible to other people. Thinking about it – _Jesus_. Now you were frantic-horny-obsessed, and in a place that encouraged unburdening your dilemmas. Okay, okay. Honestly?

You were _beyond_ frantic-horny-obsessed.

You could smell him where you were pressed up against his entire back – that familiar musk and leather and soap and sun and warmth – trying to 'see past him' through the crack in the door, while you actually just thought about the logistics, and possible ways you could get him to take you, right here, right now. If you just slid your hands up under his shirt, spread them against his navel and stroked, slowly, slowly, downwards, would he push back against you? Would he let you slip your hands down, down into his jeans, under his boxers, thread your fingers through the coarse golden curls? Would he let you touch him, rub over the shape of him, learn him by touch? Would he fill your hands, buck his hips forwards to encourage you, moan in the back of his throat? Would he –?

"Hey, he's gone – come on, quickly," Dean whispered, and then in place of heated, stifling darkness there was blinding sunshine, and Dean was dragging you out of the booth and across the hall.

_Oh, for fuck's sake. Curses and spells and whatever unholy voodoo that has ever existed – may you blight fate and coincidence and every fucking type of fluke, chance, and happenstance. May you fuck them blind so they never plague you again._

Instead of voicing these thoughts you just followed Dean, skirting around the walls until you reached the stairs to the belfry, ducked under the annoyingly familiar yellow tape, theoretically barring entrance, and made your way up. Immediately coming to the top, you were confronted by the huge brass bell, squatting in the middle of the room like a fat, dark-gold spider, gleaming softly in the light from the jaggedly broken window. They hadn't had time to fix it since the last suicide victim had used it for her fall – Asha Watson, you remembered, seeing her boyfriend's ravaged face in your mind's eye before blinking it away, looking around. Despite the sunlight you shivered, hairs sticking up all over your body, bristling.

"Cold spot," you whispered to Dean, and he nodded, sniffed loudly, eyes sweeping the room, head turning side to side, his hazel green eyes narrowed slightly. He dug the EMF meter out of his pocket, switched it on, and it immediately began to emit loud, static-y squeals, noisy in the relative silence.

"You smell that?"

"Yeah." _Ozone, one of the surest signs of spirit activity._ "Someone's been getting busy up here."

Dean smirked at you from across the room, pausing in his use of the EMF, the lights of which were going off, red streaking along the lights all the proof you needed of a supernatural presence. He ignored the obvious – _unintended_ – sexual innuendo in your previous comment, instead coming out with a, "She's like our very own ghostly version of Quasimodo – except, you know, hot. And not French."

"Or hump-backed, or male. Nice to see your mind's so focused on the job, Winchester," you said, rolled your eyes and tried not to smirk at Dean's quip. He was _such_ a – he was _so_ – he was _Dean_. Always finding some excuse, some opening to make a joke. One of the reasons why you loved him – he was a constant source of entertainment. You stepped away from him, scanning the walls with Sam's camcorder on night vision to see if there was any spiritual residual left on the worn wooden walls, moving the eye up and down, watching the feed. Glass crunched under your boots as you walked over, and the smell of ozone, the sensation of ice over and under your skin grew stronger. Stepping a little to the left brought you right up next to the window, and you ran the view over it, seeing a handprint right there, next to the red and blue and green shards of stained glass, a white, long fingered one, undoubtedly both feminine and ethereal. You couldn't see it without the aid of the camcorder, but reached out to graze fingers over it anyway, seeing your own hand in the camera, brushing the tips over the palm etched on the wall, eyes narrowed slightly with speculation. Then you jerked your hand back, an alien feeling rushing under your skin like a sweeping, erasing tide, clearing all debris. "Dean, I'm sorry," you deadpanned, suddenly, turning to face him.

"What?" he asked, incredulous, eyebrows jerking upwards, and if you weren't stuck in some kind of weird, warm numbness, you'd probably have the same look crawling across your face, at your words. But you didn't, you remained expressionless, serene. You just felt – you just felt _free_, and like you had to tell him everything. Everything you'd been holding back, repressing. _Not saying._

"I'm sorry I ended up throwing my emotions up all over you, that night, after my fight with Sharika. I really shouldn't have burdened you with that, and I regret it. I'm sorry I've been such a bitch to you, all the time, half of it without a reason, and I'm just sorry – for everything. I hope you'll forgive me, someday." You took a step closer to the gaping, serrated hole to the sky, eyeing the peaceful blue, such a contrast to yesterday's grey, grim cold. You took it as a sign, a vague smile splaying itself on your mouth, turning your lips and eyes up at the corners, edging even closer, dropping the video camera to the ground, hands loose and empty by your sides. This aloof, warm, foreign comfort was drawing you closer and closer, wrapping around you until you couldn't feel, think, could hardly see anything, your vision tunnelling until all it saw was the blue. _Liberation. _Release from all the inhibitions that you faced here, up here with Dean, the restrictions placed upon you by your own pride and emotions. He wouldn't listen – and that was okay, _it was okay,_ the numbness said, and snuggled nearer, nearer to your awareness. _It was all going to be okay._ Hazel green and golden orbs dreamy and vacant, like the rest of you, you leaned forwards, mind blissfully blank. You felt as though you were a flimsy formation of clouds, white and swirling. You were going to be emancipated, no more pain, no more anything to weigh you down. All you had to do was let go, fly into that endless, heavenly blue. And nothing would ever bother you again – no more fear of them leaving, because they couldn't. Wind rushing past your ears, tangling claws in your hair, pulling at the sides of your smile, your clothes, your limbs and you were –

– slammed back onto the wooden wall next to the window, Dean standing over you, hands braced on either side of your head, staring down into your eyes, searching. Body pressed right into yours, a heat that you could feel all against your frontal exterior, a hearth against your skin, fire and seeping, welcome familiarity. Splinters catching in your shirt at your back, stabbing slightly into your shoulders, but you couldn't care. The scent of him reached your nostrils, just as intoxicating as it had been in the close quarters of the confession booth mere minutes ago, but _closer,_ _nearer,_ surrounding you. Your eyelids are drooping to cover the spark starting to rise beneath the anesthetised emotion inside of you, and you arched your hips into him, his strength and hardness, very slightly, just enough for friction, unable to help yourself. "Lauren, what –?" he started to ask, undoubtedly confused about your behaviour, the nothingness, your foiled attempt at a journey to the sky – and then his eyes were glazing like yours, filming over with the same numb wonderfulness that had spread throughout all of your body, his own smoothing over with the looseness and foregoing of tension you'd experienced, muscles going slack and easy and soft, and he was leaning down, down, down, and his lips touched yours.

Your head thunked back against the wooden wall, followed by his, and his tongue was sliding against the seam of your lips, asking for you to open for him, to him, hands wrapping around your waist, long fingers shifting and pressing little circular indents into your flesh. Your own hands gripping, gripping the sun-warmed, smooth material of his leather jacket, mouth parting to let him in and your mind fell into the slick, wet heat of it all, his taste, the slight scrape of his stubble on your upper lip, his thigh moving to press between yours. Heat and spiralling sweetness; all under your body the nerves are bursting into joy and desire, passion flushing the skin of your cheeks red and red, and you can't think, only feel. Feel it. Feel him. Feel everything. _Let go. Let it all go. _Your hands went up to curl around the base of his neck, fingers brushing the short, soft hairs at his nape, and he's moaning into you, and you're grasping at him for purchase, grasping and gasping, and _Dean_ – _Dean – _

And a rock salt bullet splits the overloading atmosphere and pressure and intensity, and Dean's jerking away from you, stumbling forwards as though unbalanced, mouth wide and gasping and blood-flushed pink, hazel green eyes wide and stunned and burning. You swallow thickly against the lump of shock in your throat and Sam and Sharika are asking if the two of you are okay, what happened, are you okay, what happened – and you can't think. You can still feel shifting muscles beneath your palms and fingers, masculine hardness pressed into the crease of your hip, his thigh between yours, urging, rubbing, pushing, insistent and hard and smooth, delicious friction. You can still taste his essence, feel the damp gliding of his tongue against yours, on the roof of your mouth, his teeth on your lower lip, nibbling. Can only hear the rustle of cloth and denim as they stroked against limbs, and – and you can't think.

"Let's get out of here," Dean said, and your thoughts come out of the lust finally enough to understand, when he stepped away, to the side. You've been turned around, and the sky is once more in front of you, back-dropping Dean, who was just a little too close to the window, to the edge of the building, for any kind of comfort. _The ghost – the – Victoria Sumners, she'd – she'd somehow possessed the two of you – but you first, you'd leaked some of your emotions, and then you'd started heading on a one-way trip to the window and the sky, and then she'd gotten to Dean and he'd – but why had he – _

"Right," you said, nodded, and the four of you fled the church, making sure to put the priests at ease, and not leave anyone's minds suspicious, and bypassing anyone and anything else that might have tried to stop you.

000

_Watch the tall boy, the dark woman say goodbye to the preacher, and thank him for his time. _

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Do we have to talk about this?"

"No."

"Oh." _Pause. _"Good."

000

A five minute car ride back to the motel was long enough for you to hide inside inscrutability again – the Research Team didn't think that you and Dean had kissed out of your own volition, and you were clinging steadfastly to that spin on things. It was easier than thinking anything else. So, so far the four of you hadn't talked about what had happened at all – that was obviously going to be chewed over in the relative privacy of a room – well, out loud, anyway.

You're pretty sure everyone was chewing it over in their heads.

You know that in your own head the thoughts are coming thick and fast, spilling into and over your brain, confusing and tangled, emotionally charged. On one hand you could fully get the whole, possessed-by-fucked-up-spirit thing, but on the other, you were struggling. _Why had it made the two of your react in that way? What had been its individual effect?_ After all, first thing it had made you do was apologise to Dean – something you'd inwardly wanted to do since you'd told him everything you really shouldn't have, even if you hadn't really acknowledged the compulsion. And then – and then it had started to make you like all the other victims, suicidal and aiming for the swan dive. What? Did it pick up on your emotions, or something? Inner desires?

_Oh no, don't even go there._ Because if that really was the truthful take on things, just look at what Dean's first action had been, after his possession. He'd _kissed _you. _Kissed you._ Your mind took a blissful second to trail over this fact, before commencing again with the internal questionnaire, batting away any more attempts at distraction your libido threw your way. Did that mean he'd _wanted_ to do that? Was that Victoria Sumners' MO? She compelled you to let out your inner impulses? Rid you of all your inhibitions? Thinking back you can hear the voice in your head, telling you to let it go, to free yourself, to feel everything. Maybe… or were you missing something here?

You had to be missing something.

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop outside the motel, and the four of you hopped out, headed without discussion over to the room Sharika and Sam were occupying, opened the door, and flopped inside. Well, so, okay – _you_ flopped inside, onto Sam's bed, Dean went and sat on the chair, legs spread, fingers tapping, Sam started pacing, back and forth, eyes narrowed, and Sharika went straight to the bedside table to pick up the stacks of research and shift through them, easy as you please.

"Okay, so what happened? From the start, Dean." Sam finally asked his brother, head turned to look at him, blue green eyes still narrowed, waiting.

"I'm not sure exactly," Dean answered slowly, eyebrows beetled in the middle, hazel green searching the threadbare carpet for answers. His voice is deep and cautious, as though he's still thinking over everything that had happened, trying to comprehend it, so he can figure it all out for the hunt. The fact that as a side effect of the ghost he'd kissed you meant nothing at all to him; as it rightly should. Any kiss between the two of you would mean nothing to him. Always. And this one even less so, because – well, because he hadn't even _wanted_ to at all. Victoria Sumners had just affected the two of you freakishly, and that was that. "It felt like nothing." Your mind rationalises that he may be talking about the numb feeling _– the – the _– and then your heart fixates, and you're thinking about how you knew it hadn't meant anything to him, and how these words are his way of speaking to you to avoid a chick flick moment later, and how much of an idiot you were to have some remnant of hope left anyway. You're such an idiot; you put on this front, deliberately thought indifferent thoughts to build yourself up – _any kiss between you would mean nothing to him, etcetera, etcetera – _but in the back of your mind you're still clinging to the act and not the feeling behind it – because it _had_ happened, and no matter what it had meant he'd still _done_ it – and then he goes and says something like that and you crash, despite everything. You were just thinking about it before he confirmed them aloud; spoke your mind, even. Irony is your most consistent nemesis, these days.

"Nothing? Really, Dean? Because it didn't look like _nothing_ when you were kissing Lauren and stepping backwards out of the belfry window!"

"Sammy, I don't know what it was, alright? That spirit was fucking us up. Messing with our heads, whatever. I won't let it happen again. Speaking of our latest bad, have you guys found a way to waste her yet? That bitch is really getting on my last nerve."

"Dean –" Sam semi-explodes, exasperated at the attempt to waive off his concern. His hands go out to his sides with his exclamation – that wide gesture of half question, half intimidation as he looms over where his brother is sitting. Dean simply raises an eyebrow at him, completely unaffected, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and staring straight back into Sam's. The two of them are a standoff for the moment, inner strengths and voices telling them not to back down. You wondered how many countless silent arguments that had been undertaken in their lives – God knew they went through enough of them during the course of one day. Sam opens his mouth to speak again, probably say something cutting and criticizing, or about Dean's lack of intelligence, and then suddenly he's shooting a calculating look between you, Sharika, and lastly his brother once more, before saying, "Can I speak to you outside for a second?"

"Sam –"

"_Now_, Dean."

They both leave, the door clicking shut behind them.

And then your brain stops rewinding and going over the conversation from five seconds ago _– I won't let it happen again – it was nothing – nothing – didn't look like nothing – can I speak to you outside for a second – _and realises that this is the first time you've been alone with Sharika since the fight, and there is no helpful and staunch Winchester brother to act as a safeguard between you and she.

_Just don't do anything stupid, _you think, absorbing the sudden and light speed shock, body stiffening where you lie face down on the bed.You turn your head for a second, shoot a glance her way. She's eyeing the floor with suspicion, chocolate orbs narrowed and studying the floor with a curious intensity belied with her whole exterior – and you realise she's thinking about what the boys must be doing outside – probably deducing, as you had, that whatever conversation they were having was about the two of you, and that they were planning something. It was never a good idea to leave the Winchesters unattended for long – they always got in some sort of trouble. Your concentration splits, and you find it amazing, for a moment, that you can still read her thoughts, her features and expressions after all this time, even while you're fighting with her. You used to simultaneously love and hate that – having her reciprocate and always know what's flitting through your brain – love that she could empathise so fully, hate it when she'd use it against you when you were 'being stubborn, Lauren'. Now you find yourself just hating it – just angry and hurt that she can so casually treat you like a stranger, even though she must know what it's doing to you – what you're going through. Then again – well, you can't really see through her right now, can you? Because in some ways, she does feel like a stranger. You press your face back into the pillow, start thinking about what you'd do in her place – probably knife her. You're – _oh crap, oh crap, oh SHIT. Try not to panic; she's not doing anything, is she? Not going to grab a weapon to stab in your back, or anything like that. She doesn't have violent tendencies, like you do. _Your ears strain to hear the telltale rustlings in spite of your rushed, not-very-self-assured mental reassurances, your face pressed into the pillow, breathing smothered by material and twitching impulses. Should you just stay here, immobile until the boys come back in? Maybe you should snoop on them, or pretend to snoop on them, so she thinks you're busy. Or maybe you should say something to her, act like you're fine, unaffected, just fucking dandy. No, no, you can't do that. No. You just – _but what if she?_ – if you don't will she think you're scared of her? Because you aren't. You just don't want to talk to her. She's a bitch. Right? You'll just lie here, won't make a sound, won't do anything, and everything will just be fine. _Make no sudden movements and we may get out alive. _

"So," you drawl, rolling over, pushing hair out of your eyes, shifting your head to the side so you can smile at her wide and cheery; overcompensation for the emptiness behind it and your eyes. _Fuck, fuck! You knew this would happen – you just can't bloody HELP yourself, can you? You have to prod, like – like – like you're a child with a stick and there's an alligator body washed up on the beach and you have a stick and you think it's dead so you poke at it continuously but IT'S NOT FUCKING DEAD YOU IDIOT IT'S ALIVE AND IT'S GOING TO REND YOU LIMB FROM LIMB AND DO YOU REALLY WANT TO BE DEAD AND LIMBLESS? JESUS CHRIST. _You move up on your elbows a bit, tilt your head to the side; flick a glance over her where she's standing, near the foot of the other bed, papers of research still held loose and useless between her fingers. Scour your brain for some kind of ice-breaker, something to say that isn't loaded, or so inane as to seem patronising. Or do you want that? _Goddamnit. You have no fucking idea._ "Seen any good movies lately?"

She gives you a strange look, eyebrow rising, polite puzzlement evident in those familiar features – _no other emotion, unlike when ever you'd ask a stupid question like that and you were friends – she'd give you an even stranger look, mouth off a smart ass comment and you'd laugh, banter back _– _fucking hell you miss her – come back, don't look like that – please – just – can't you? –_ lips angling down and to the right for a split second before she's smoothing her face out again, looking down at the papers, blank as the sides you can see. "Nope, no time." A beat. "How about you? How's your life going?"

"Oh, it's just great," you say, voice thick with cheer and ease. It clogs your throat like something's stuck in there, trying to crawl out of your neck, make a huge, bleeding hole right next to your pulse. The fingers of your left hand, the one she can't see, pick at the bedspread, plucking at a loose thread, tugging, tugging, cutting white into your fingertips. "Yep. Fine and dandy." A pause, identical to her own. "You?"

"It's okay." Sharika looks away from you, sitting down on the other bed, starting obviously just looking for an excuse not to meet your eyes or talk to you anymore, to avoid you, and you swallow the impulse to throw things, and the lump in your throat, watching your fingers instead. They are pulling the thread taut and tight, making the skin all pale and bloodless, the line where it's pressing into the flesh red. You know it's either going to slip from your fingers or snap if you don't let go soon, and holding on hurts anyway.

You lick your lips, lessen your hold on the thread, and smooth your fingers down next to your waist, making little circles on the fabric. Think about silence, and its merits, and about what else you could say to break it. If you should. What you really want to break is the way she's treating you – the ice. The way it's even more obvious to you at this moment, than it has been over the past couple of days, that's she treating you like you're a complete stranger. Sure, with the boys there, she'd acted this way, but you could almost ignore it, because you had Dean, or Sam there to distract you, to speak to. Now, alone, trying to start a conversation it was blaring in your ears like someone pushing down hard on their horn, with both palms. It was clamouring like a bell, screaming like a cat whose tail's been trodden on. You can't bear it, have to do something – _have to – have to – anything –_ "What a great ceiling they have here."

You see her eye the ceiling, head going back on her neck, black hair swishing over her t-shirt, with its tiny brown flowers, and you don't cry when she answers, voice coldly polite and uninterested, the voice of an acquaintance who has been warned about the slightly psychotic family member. You've had enough of crying – enough of it to last you for another decade, maybe. You're not going to let her hear the sobs clawing up your esophageus; see the tears stinging your eyelids. This – the way she's treating you – it – it hurts _Goddamnit_. Worse than cuts, or bruises, or what Dean had said just a couple of minutes ago, about that aberration of a perfect kiss. Worse maybe even than the fall off the belfry would have. You'd have preferred for her to be mad, for her to scream and shout at you, throw things, to physically unleash her anger at you, to bitch about you, whatever – it would have meant she cared, would have meant she was affected. The way she's acting towards you, no matter how pleasant and non-confronting as it was – it just clarified the fact that she'd stopped giving a damn about you, that you are no different to her than the random victim of the week. That she feels she can easily deal with you without getting too close, without too much effort. You wonder briefly if this is because she thinks you're treating her the same way, then discard it quickly. Who's the one who tried to start a conversation just now? Who hasn't completely replaced her with a Winchester? _Jesus._ She's acting as though she doesn't even know you, and just – you need her. Need some help. You can't do this without her. These thoughts hit you hard – you're not even sure what they're about, you just know they're true, and she's being so frozen you have hypothermia and it's just – _you can't – why won't she –_ "I guess."

"Yeah. It's really… white." _Try grimy cream colour._ Dirty purity. It looks like it used to be white. "And water stained. How do you get water stains on a ceiling?" _One that isn't a bathroom, that is._ You don't expect an answer – a real one, anyway.

"I don't know?" Suddenly she's shooting you a grin over her shoulder, face animated and easy, chocolate eyes lighting up with amusement, identical to millions of others she used to give you, before this fight, before she left you – and you feel your breath catch in your chest, the shock halting respiration. _She looks as though – you just – what the hell –_ she looks like _herself_, looks _normal_, looks like – _just _– and your heart beats hard, painful, hopeful – shooting some kind of trying-to-be-cautious-and-failing, unrestrained euphoria throughout your system, "Maybe they had –" and then just as quickly her eyes are shuttering, caution pulling over her so you can actually _see _it – the tension resettling about her shoulders, the smile dropping away to the floor, teasing light dying out as swiftly as it had appeared. "Never mind, I don't know."

"What were you going to say?" you ask, trying not to sound as desperate for reconnection as you feel, eyelids sandpaper over your pupils, pride resembling something that's been recently dragged over gravel.

"Nothing." The distance in her voice hurts. You blink; turn your back to her, vision of the motel door going blurry as you open your mouth, force out some semblance of unaffected ease and calm disinterest.

"Oh." It's all you can manage.

And then Dean's slamming back through the door, whirlwind of angry energy, glaring over his shoulder at his brother, voice deep, accent pronounced and adamant as he says, "No, Sam. No way. Its not gonna happen."

"But Dean, what if it's the only way? If it works –"

"Sam," Dean says, the dark, slow warning of an older, pissed off brother in his tone, eyes flicking to where you're lying on the bed, then away, and then back again as he registers your expression. Watery and broken. Quickly you glue a smile on; it's small and your eyes are still full but maybe he's too far away to notice and besides, he'll ignore it, and you really have to _get it off_, this weight, and you want him to hold you again, and make it better, and you want to hear his heartbeat and his words telling you it'll be okay, and everything will figure itself out and just – "Fine," Dean says, turning away from you, looking back up at his brother, and Sam blinks. "Fine."

You don't ask.

000

"Lauren?"

"Mmm?"

"I just wanted to know if – in there –" _Sigh. Run of big, square hand through short dark blonde hair. _"Are you alright?"

_Pause. Eyes don't meet the hazel green ones above. _"I'm always alright."

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_AN: Howdy guys! Looks like ff . net is finally back on track for me. I should have answered most of the PMs and reviews by now – there are still a couple I have to get to, but I just want to thank you all for the continuing support even though it seemed like I'd deserted you guys or something. :P Not happening. _

_Anyways, this chapter'll have to tide you guys over for a while. It's even long than the previous and chapter 24!! Dude. I've outdone myself. Lol. Oh, and if the little snippets of conversation interspersed between the bigger slabs of text seem weird to you, you're right. They were a last minute inspiration and I just slapped them in there. :hangs head: I just wanted to. You can ignore them. _

_Promo: _

_History haunts. Not just ghosts, but everyone. Tune in for over-the-top sexin', ass as distraction, more gnarly, vengeance-seeking ghosts, and brass bells. This is such a lame promo, lol – I swear chapter 35, Living So Free Is A Tragedy When You Can't, is far better. See you on Sunday!!_


	35. Living So Free Is A Tragedy

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35. Living So Free Is A Tragedy When You Can't

_People are __trapped__ in history and history is __trapped__ in them._

_-- James Arthur Baldwin _

They wait until night falls to head back to the church – hunters always seem more comfortable in the darkness; it suits them, it shrouds them, their identities, their movements, their positions. If they're good enough they can escape detection for as long as they wish it; even if they're in plain sight they can hide and creep and stalk, silent and wary through buildings and streets. No one sees, no one hears, no one notices.

_A metaphor for life,_ she thinks, watching Dean pick the lock on the side door of the church. Sharika and Sam are fuzzy in her peripheral vision, talking in quiet voices to each other, words she can't hear, tells herself she doesn't want to, anyway. She shivers; a ripple all along her body, ankles to head, little hairs on her nape and arms standing straight as pins as a cold wind blows past, rustling the black trees next to the church. _It was a dark and stormy night… dun dun dunnnn._ _God, she's been reading too many trashy, paper-back, gas station novels. Although none of them really hit on this situation all that much. Complicated plots like breaking into a building to get some documents to save the Mary Sue so she can get with the Gary Stu who's breaking in with her, and have lots of over-the-top sexin' before they 'surprisingly' decide to get hitched, sure. But a simple in and out job, one that involved a church and the exorcism of a restless spirit? Nah. _

Apparently the boys had uncovered a way to put Victoria Sumners to rest – a scrap of hair, or something. They hadn't really been specific. Sam and Dean were going to go off and uncover it – it was someplace _secret_ – while the women kept the spirit busy in the belfry. Lauren had, of course, fought valiantly against this plan, despite the fact that she trusted both of them implicitly with stuff relating to their jobs, hunting, the supernatural. It was just that despite the lack of enthusiasm she had about spending time with her former – yes, _former_, she has to keep reminding herself – best friend, something felt a little weird about it – _why couldn't they even tell her the location of that last piece of Victoria Sumners? _But other, more urgent and selfish queries took precedence. _Why couldn't she go and burn the remnant? Why did she have to go with the dark woman? Why couldn't Sam and Sharika keep the spirit busy? Why couldn't Dean go with her like last time? Why? Why? Why? Why were they making her spend time with her? Did they want her to hate them? Why?_ And lastly – _oh, fuck you. _They'd answered all her questions – well, okay, Sam had, bland smile spread on his face like he totally wasn't getting annoyed, trying to read while she pestered him, until Dean had butted in at the last and said, "Lauren, just deal. This is how it's going down, and that's it." That's when the _'oh fuck you'_ had come into play. The older boy really was an overbearing son of a bitch, sometimes.

Okay, yeah. _Most_ of the time.

That doesn't stop her from checking out his ass when it's presented so lovely and taut and obvious in front of her, like he's offering it up as a distraction, just standing there, bent at the waist, cussing to himself and trying to _get this fucking door open, what's wrong with you, Jesus, just because you're a holy door doesn't mean you should be this stubborn _and fumbling around, all experienced and steady-handed, until the lock clicks and everyone gives a slight start, eyes flicking around to make sure of their safety. "Finally," Dean says, smug and deep and contented, opening the door with a push and a dirty grin that shouldn't be let thirty feet near any really devout church. Because God just knows temptation shouldn't be knocking at His own door.

_Say goodbye to all the nuns. _

The four hunters troop inside, shut the big wooden doors again, blocking out the scant moon and starlight, and the blonde woman shoots a glance around the room, as always amazed at the difference between a place of worship during the day time, and the night. The church, which had felt so warm and welcoming just that afternoon, was now big and echoing and empty, dark shadows crouching in the corners, their footsteps scuffing on the wood and sending blurry sounds all over the room.

"Okay," comes a voice in the dark, soft and sure, and Sammy – _Sammy_, right, they hadn't been caught out, and there's no need to be gripping the gun in the back of her waistband. God she's jumpy tonight, and she can't seem to help it – wound so tight she feels like a string instrument – a violin maybe, that'd be appropriate for the atmosphere. Screechy and universally ominous, especially if it's playing that really creepy music found in B class horror films. Despite everything that piece still has the power to freak her out – no one'd ever find her _admitting_ that, but there you go. It's just that being in this place, well, the darkness made the possibility of her getting taken over by the spirit again seem all the more likely. She's afraid – last time she'd almost slipped out her emotions about Dean. If she's possessed again what will she let out? The fear is like gorge, thin and sour in the back of her throat – like all the words she could say if Victoria decides to come out and play. All the truths. The horrible truths. _God._ She relinquishes the comforting hold of the weapon slowly, hand brushing against her denim clad thigh, breathing out with the movement, the almost calming touch of her own warm fingertips, telling herself to just breathe – _easy, easy girl –_ and the taller boy's speaking again, saying – "Everyone know what they're doing?"

She forgets for a second it's too dark for him to see her nodding, and then she's echoing the double _'yeah'_s, flipping the boys off just because she can and they can't see it – plus they're making her be with _Sharika_ for fuck's sake. Shuffling in the general direction of the – _door, door, left turn, left turn, right at the statue of the Holy Mary, door, stairwell, door_ – that leads to the belfry. Footsteps follow hers, quiet and hesitant weaving through the pews, the dark woman just as blind as she is, eyes still adjusting to the stuffy, all pervading gloom, the shapes that keep realigning and changing, blue, black, grey silhouettes shifting on the floor, on the walls, the stained glass, the paintings and statues and candlesticks, and _there's the door,_ and she really was heading in the right direction, _thank god._

Before long the two women are slinking up the belfry stairs, a careful distance of three feet held between them at all times, eyes studiously not making contact, and no words needing to be said, as the dark woman just follows the blonde, who presumably knows what she's doing. Truthfully, Lauren only knows the way – what to do when she gets there, well, that is yet to be figured out. It's doubtful it will be to a satisfactory degree, in any case, if the choices are left up to her – when has she made a good decision lately? Everything she's attempted has shot up in flames of either mortal embarrassment – _no, no, she's forgotten that weepy, snotty almost-kiss that she tried to force onto Dean, okay_ – or hurt, because yeah. Sam and Sharika? They hit the nail on the head _every single fucking time_ when it came to scarring their so called 'loved ones', fucking them over, or freezing them out. They just _know_ the places to press on, don't they?

She can't think about this now, _hunt – hunt – job, remember? The spirit thing that almost made her take a dive off the church roof? Remember that? Right? _She has to focus. She has to keep her mind on this, and on how to get Victoria's attention without being completely reckless – because does she really need more berating right now? Heh, _no_. So, she could get possessed again, because she's pretty sure that'd take up a large measure of Miss Sumner's dead interest – but that falls into the 'reckless' category, and does she really want to have to be rescued by Sharika, or something? Plus, yeah, the idea of taking a 'voluntary' jump off this place wasn't high on her list of priorities right now. Okay, _options_. She could – what? Blast rock salt into dark corners and hope it hits something? Start singing a really annoying tune, or badmouthing Jesse Ramsis and trust that the spirit comes out to play for a while? There's no real precedence for getting a spirit's attention on purpose. Maybe a séance, or a spell, but she didn't bring the stuff, and doesn't have any of those handy, or saved into her cell phone. Usually she was made to go out of her way to _avoid _the attention of gnarly, vengeance-seeking ghosts.

_Just another fucked up turn of events,_ she thinks, opening the door to the belfry. She moves to the side to let the dark woman slip inside, and gently shuts it again. She wonders vaguely where and what the boys are up to – what was their plan? Why hadn't they given either of the women any specifics? Maybe… maybe they were using the two of them as bait. A distraction, to keep Sumner busy and away from them. That was if they were even doing anything that she needed to be kept away from – maybe the whole reason they were even here was for some weird reason of the boys' own – something to do with them – but just –

She shakes her head, pushing these idiotic thoughts to the side. She trusted the boys. Whatever they said they were doing, she was sure that it was being done.

The room is cold, and wind blows through it from the cracks in the boarded up window – someone had obviously been up here since the afternoon. There's nailed cardboard blocking most of the moonlight, though cracks still manage to filter through, along with the weather. The blonde woman shivers, draws her jersey closer to her, wishes she'd brought a jacket instead of skipping out of the motel room like something untouchable. Sharika, wrapped up in hoodies, doesn't so much as glance her way, eyes covering the room instead, flitting across the shadows leaping on the walls when a car drove past the street outside, light coasting along the quiet, smug, gleaming lines of the bell, heavy and silent in the middle of the room.

"So, any ideas?" the blonde woman asks, raising an eyebrow that goes unheeded in the dark, Sharika turning to her, pushing a strand of black hair from her gloom dissected face, eyes slanted pitch in the shadows.

"No. You?"

"Not really." There's a pause as they wait, each willing the other to talk, neither of their viciously awkward, scrambled telepathic messages – telling the other woman to fucking _do _something already – reaching their intended destination. They shift their weights, right foot to left, studiously not meeting each other's eyes, crossing their arms across their abdomens – waiting. For what, they aren't sure. But something has to happen, right? The blonde woman finds a peculiar pleasure in the idea that Sharika is just as clueless as she, that she was just as vulnerable – maybe even more so, because she had not been possessed before, did not know the exact side effects. It makes her feel a little better, a little more secure, and as she flicks a glance over at the cardboard covered hole where the window should be, again, she wonders if she should try and touch Victoria's handprint a second time. But she discards the idea with a twitch of her right brow and a scratch at her cheek. _Not that stupid. _After that it's like she has unwillingly unleashed a case of the fidgets, and she can't seem to stay still – she plucks at her sleeves, her shirt where it lies crumpled against her stomach, taps her foot against the ground, starts nodding her head to a non-existent beat, hair swinging forward over wary hazel and gold eyes. "So…?" she says finally, when the silence gets to be too much, and the dark woman, who has been traversing the belfry with her own attempt at a release of tension, looks over at her. "Never mind," she mutters, and starts pacing in parallel.

Her route takes her in a continuous orbit around the bell, a minatory presence in the centre of the belfry – something that would have held everyone's attention that came up here, bar for the cavity where the stained glass should be, but isn't. The hole that signifies the death of seven separate women. She doesn't know what it is about the hanging object that makes her so tense, until she rationalises that it must be its potential for noise – for giving their position away to more than half the town if it's knocked hard enough. She pauses in front of it for a second, studying, back to the window, whispers of air gliding over the exposed nape of her neck. Then, almost against her will, she's stretching out cold fingers to touch the softly shimmering surface, trailing her fingertips over the frigid metal in whorls, and uneven lines. When she lays her full hand against it the cold stings her palm like needles, sends a shiver right up her arm, down her back to her spine, and hunter instincts prick up their ears.

_Yeah, okay. No need to shout so loud; I get it. Something so isn't right here_, the blonde thinks, but before she can do anything about it she's sliding her other hand up to place against the bell, eyes slipping half way closed. Somewhere far off she's thinking about how it wasn't just the fact that she knew the Sumner chick was up here, just biding her time, watching her and Sharika, waiting, that was getting her all agitated and making her spidey senses tingle. It was just – okay, wait, _what the hell was she doing? What was making her do this?_ It was – something. Something _else_.

And then the far off mental voice is gone.

She ducks her head forward, closer, warm breath flowering out onto the metal, spreading her life in a white cloud. A honey curl that looks dull, lacklustre grey in the light caresses her cheek, soft tickle angled along the skin of her cheekbone, the underside of her chin. Senses seem almost unbearably heightened, stretched in this moment – and she swallows, licks her tongue over her mouth, just watches her breaths blooming slowly on the bell, the pearly condensation having no chance to fade between inhalations. She just stands there, cold metal on chilled skin, and _waits. For that something. That something – something else. _She –

"Lauren? Wha–?" and a hand is gripping her shoulder, suddenly, hazel green and gold eyes fighting to blink open in surprise, failing, weighted down by some heavy lethargy, because she'd stopped automatically tracking those quiet footsteps – _when – when had she stopped –? _And then the signature anaesthetic aura is spreading, and she has the remaining vestige of individual thought left to think – _oh, son of a bitch – _before her last logical brain cell flees, along with all her control, screaming for its mommy.

_Let go. Free yourself. _

She opens her eyes.

The stilted, monotonous apologies slip out of two mouths in unison, the frigid air that carries those two little words past open lips as apathetic as the sensation each woman is masked in. "I'm sorry," they repeat, as though they are unable to stop themselves, the compulsion to reveal this, the need, too strong. The motion of the dark woman's hand dropping from the blonde's shoulder, brushing along the sleeve of her shirt, is halted when the women grip each other – two hands intertwined, the only point of contact. The blonde woman's left hand still lies against the smooth metal of the bell, pads of her fingers meeting the brass ephemeral, though her body has revolved to face the other. Ballerina in the music box.

"I miss you," Sharika whispers, blank face a chiaroscuro. The seamless voice is coaxing them both open, undeniable as the tide, black and white and navy wash of the sea at night, and they're sinking.

"I miss you too," she says, rubbed raw with the salt of inevitability that she cannot feel, trapped inside the plexiglass prison walls of possession. A possession only the sleeping part of her would be able to acknowledge, recognise. Most of her is deadened, not realising the wrongness of the situation, unable to fight it. The numbness in her limbs is thick seaweed. The room is black, moon disappearing. The room is rustling, overladen with atmospheric pressure. The room is cold. They are open to the elements, cardboard flinging past their heads to stick on a wooden wall, the wind suddenly a whole presence, swirling around the shadowed figures, blowing hair in front of, into eyes, pulling cloth tight and loose and tight again. And yet neither of the women notice. Their attention is stripped away to the barest necessity allowed and pushed by the warm arms of the comatose sensation, and each other. Their only point of focus clasped hands, tangled emotions slipping out stripped naked.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

And they're connected; Lauren, smiling vague and dreamy, eyelids dropped to half-mast, knows what this question is, all it carries. It is not simply a response to her own comment; and the waves push her continuously, unavoidably towards the answer required by uncovered vehemence and the pulsing need. "I was scared. Of trusting you again." If she rocked forwards their bodies would come into complete unity; the first time in too long they'd be touching without restraint. But she's too caught to move, words the only thing granted to her. "And a part of me wanted you to suffer, just as much as I had when you left me." The language is effortless and flat, void of any intonation or colouration of colour – emotion, like the two frozen bodies. They drip out of a segregated mouth easily, deadpan as any deserted faucet. "I'm still scared."

"So am I. I was then, too. But I left to save your life."

"I know that now. I didn't. You just left, and I didn't know why."

If they weren't taken over by the ghost they'd be screaming again, feelings volatile as dynamite. But they are blanketed by their enslaver, and only dull words cut to the quick are authorized to be let out of physical and mental confines. The words they had wanted to speak for so long, but were disallowed to by their own natures, sentiments, experiences, wishes. In a way this is liberation, as well as entrapment. If they would but see it that way. _Let go. Free yourself. _They have no choice.

"I couldn't have told you, because you wouldn't have let me go, Lauren."

"You never gave me the chance, the trust, to try and do the right thing."

"If I had told you everything, would you have let me leave?"

The blonde woman can only speak the truth. "No."

"It killed my parents, that demon. I saw their decapitated heads rolling on the floor. And the reason they were attacked was because of me. I've had to live with that guilt ever since then." Sharika is vacant; she could have been talking about the process of cement mixing, so empty were the words that filtered forth. Never before had she talked about her parents, her past, of her own free will. Only when she was cornered, or needed to explain something – like when the blonde had first found out about her reasons for leaving. And this was the furthest she'd ever taken the conversation. A lock of hair, swung by the wind, cuts her whole face, strands blinked slowly away from her eyes. Could have been passed off as demon eyes, they are so filled with black and shadow, but for the way they hold the light of another passing car. Lauren blinks back, eyelashes dropping, connecting, rising, parting. She breathes through the thickness that is the atmosphere, and they share a lifeless smile. "And then I had the risk placed upon me of that happening to you, as well as knowing why I left you, and not being able to heal the drift between us, because I couldn't tell you, all this time." The dark woman pauses; inhales, exhales. Still and tensionless, held up only by the marionette strings the spirit pulls, flawlessly impelling the heart-filled, yet impassive speech. "He's still after you."

"How do you know that?" the blonde woman asks, soft and even. Numb. _Numb. Let go, free yourself. _Victoria Sumner pushes down on the instincts rousing, trying to awaken and let fly with fear and shock and any other reaction that might hinder the speaking of the plain facts. The demon is still after her. The demon that killed the sacramentum parents of her best friend, the demon that took her best friend away. "You haven't been given any more threats, have you? It could be over, and besides – we have Sam and Dean now."

"Even John couldn't do anything about this demon; Sam and Dean won't be able to get rid of it. They aren't good enough. This just goes to show you how powerful he is. Why I was right to leave, to put you out of danger. And I know he's still after you because I've been having _dreams_ about him – we're connected that way. But you already knew that." Heartbeat pause. "But John knows something. Something major. It's why we have to find him – I know it centres on me. I have to find out what it is."

"We're trying as hard as we can." Another pause as the blonde woman swallows, the abstract smile on her face growing to push crinkles around her eyes. Any conscious being would realise that it looks wrong – like someone is shaping her face, not knowing how the original should be. Lips lopsided the wrong way, eyebrows hitched too high for this style. And yet the rest of her is still expressionless, not matching the visage; a caterpillar trapped in a chrysalis. _Let go. Let it all go. _"I hate John, sometimes. A lot of the time. Not just because of this."

"Tell me about it." A smile pulls at the seams of the dark woman's mouth, blank, black and grey lines scored around the mouth to simulate expression. Her eyes are void of anything humanoid, the smile, of anything familiar. It is just as affected as the blonde's, a twin.

"What it comes down to, for me, is he told you to leave, and you did." Lauren is covered with goose pimples, the effect of which she cannot feel. She cannot shiver; rub life and sensation back into the bare limbs. She cannot resist the thrust of foreign awareness that coaches her to keep spilling integral secrets. She cannot stop the strange smile. She cannot recognise her state. Slave. _Free yourself._ "It still hurts. All the rationalising about all the reasons doesn't really help. Feelings are, and will continue to be, well and truly fucked."

"I have to agree. But when I came back, well, the way I feel is that I might have left you physically, but you left me emotionally. And in some ways that's worse."

"I admit it – I did close you off. But that's because I felt like you left me in every way that is possible, and I was worried you'd do it again. However, all this is past. I forgave you in St Louis. Or realised I'd forgiven you. And I want you to forgive me, so we can go back to the way things were."

"I do forgive you. I'm sorry for leaving you, and not giving you a choice, and taking away the control you have over your life."

"As I am sorry for being sadistic. I did not truly want you to suffer, but rather understand what I'd been going through, because I still believe that you don't. Just as I would not let myself understand what you were undergoing, all that you'd been feeling."

There's a pause as the dark woman breathes in, out. If it weren't for this movement, the verbal confirmation, she could have been comparable to a corpse. There is no sign that she is alive from her words, any tone that belies the dead status. She is empty – and still the painted, horrible smile remains. "I have to ask, because I've been thinking about it since I came back. Is that why you were really mad when I left? Because I took away some of your control?"

_Yes? Maybe. A little bit. _The web is still tangled, so the spirit plucks out the most linear answer. The one least bogged by fear, by denial. The one that contains a calm acceptance, as well as most of the truth. "No. I tend to fixate on small things so I don't get the whole amount of pain and hurt in one go." _Truth. And she is scared of risk, of having no control – of having others control or affect her life outside of what she wishes, can allow. Doesn't wish to get hurt._ "Controlling my life was the obsession in this case." _In most cases. Why do you think she refuses to take chances with any one bar herself? Dean, Sam, Sharika. Her family – all her family. She must be sure of the outcome, or she cannot follow through._ "I didn't want to think about how much I love you, and the fact that you didn't feel the same."

"I do."

"I know."

And the women glide forwards, bodies meeting, stilted and smooth all at once; in one motion, two pairs of arms wrapping, two heads dropping, two breaths released as one, as though in relief. Movements so perfectly mirrored it could have been rehearsed, a fine pair of light and dark, partners, equals, greeting. An action that has been too long in coming, since that last time, in the shadow bear cave, three days after their reunion. Something neither would have admitted to needing, wanting, yearning for – a simple comfort they had relied upon in the past to get them through. It's a deed stripped of all meaning for once however – the lack of feeling giving it a fake air. Neither notice, their free will, awareness sleeping. _Let go, free yourself._

And the spirit, whose benign presence sparked the confession and the gestures, takes this time to nudge the dark woman, and the blonde towards the open window, the cloaked night sky with its scattering of stars, the negligent moon, and the thick cumulous. They take the steps together, one, two, three, four, holding hands, the listless smiles spreading ever wider as –

– the boys burst into the room, an explosion of life completely contrasting the women sliding along the floorboards, hands clasped, eyes bent on their final destination. The oldest boy takes careful, quicksilver aim, and the silence is shattered by a rock salt gunshot that jerks Sharika and Lauren apart with wide, gasping breaths. Their eyes flit around the room, now empty of Miss Sumner's presence, which has been happily replaced with the corporeal ones of Sam and Dean.

"Oh, son of a _bitch,_" Lauren snarls through the gritting of her teeth, her last free thought made verbal at long last – and she's pulling her gun out of her waistband, turning to the boys standing in the door way. She keeps her eyes moving around the room though, touching on areas for no more than a split second before her gaze shifts, making sure her senses are open. "_Please_ tell me you've got something to burn? Like, right _now_?"

The Winchesters shoot each other an indecipherable glance, and Sharika sighs next to her, her own gun appearing in shadowed hands. "It was all a lie, wasn't it? This was part of a ploy to make us friends again."

"Wait a sec," the blonde woman says, voice low and dangerous and half way to incredulous, although she'd suspected something like this herself. She's holding up one finger in deadly parallel to the gun, which is pointed with sweet accuracy at the boys standing still and wide eyed in the belfry's entrance, the older one opening his mouth to try and get himself off the hook. She's glowing with anger and righteous indignation, guiding some of it away from Mrs Ghostly Quasimodo to Dumb and Dumber. "We got _possessed_, by _a ghost_, so they'd speed up the process of us kissing and making up?"

"Yep."

"I'm going to kill you. Both of you. Slowly."

Unfortunately she doesn't get the chance – Victoria comes howling back into the room, bringing friends in the form of all her previous victims – knocking the dead chick quota up from one to seven.

_She loves her job. _

_Really. _

Time speeds up – she's dodging a faceless white shape grabbing for her hair, rolling on the floor, splinters grating as she _aims – shoots – misses_ – throwing her body to the left as another one swoops down. _Fucking ghosts,_ she thinks angrily. _Don't know when to fucking __quit_. She chances a look to the right where Sam's covering Sharika, shooting like a real American – just keep clicking and hope you hit something. Nothing's been hit yet. Sharp sounds of the gun shots, bangs that split through the keening of the ghosts and the wind like whip cracks. The nip of ozone in her nostrils, the cool, steady grip of the gun in her hand. Eyes watering slightly from where she scraped her elbow – the sting of air rushing past too fast – blink it back to clear the vision. _She's alive. _And she takes another shot with a salt bullet, connecting with a spirit _finally_, as she gets her feet under her, her body bending, jack knifing off the floor, and she's tacking to the wall. Focus. _Focus_. Something solid to put her back against.

_Like that works with GHOSTS, LAUREN, _she reminds herself, seeing a woman pop out of the wooden slats behind Dean's head, ethereal hands scratching towards his eyes. Everything is instinct and _action – _she takes the shot before she's even aware, the ghost jerking away and up and out of reach before the older boy has even noticed its proximity. When he looks at her, mouth moving without sound she shrugs, rolls her eyes – and the moment is gone as they get back to business.

_Run – roll – duck – up, up – left! Right! Spin! Shoot – miss – duck – duck – flat! Flip! Aim – shoot – hit. Bye-bye, Asha Watson. _The older boy takes out the next with bared teeth and a bleeding shoulder – Sharika and Sam hit a third simultaneously, cracking sound sharp and efficient, blood running down their temples in tandem. It leaves Victoria – _fucking annoying possessing bitch_ – and three more, one a transparent, splattered and broken representation of the remains of her body – the other practically perfect, only one snapped limb, her indented skull, and the resulting view of her grey matter giving evidence to her aborted flight – the last with legs and snapped neck dangling at insane angles. Two of them are gone in another couple of shots from the couple in the corner, Sharika and Sam, teeth glinting white and feral in the moonlight.

She finds her back to Dean's and flicks a glance over her shoulder at him. "Your ass is mine," she grunts, warning him about the _later_, and he grins, her hair whipping into his eyes from the spirit tainted wind, the last two spectres shrieking and coming for them again.

"You wish," and he's ducking, tucking, rolling and aiming – she hears a shot go loose as she spins. _Roll – roll – ungainly fling and fumble to the left – _and she's at the window, balance teetering out – out_ – over –_ having been pushed further than she intended by a malignant, ghostly hand. Her arms flail – wide and clutching – _she's going to fall – she's going to die – _her fingers finding only emptiness as she twists and tries to shove herself backwards – but there's nothing to push against – _air – air – sky –_ the dark pavement below the last thing she sees before –

– three pairs of hands pull and thrust her back and up and in – one dark, two light, two masculine, one feminine – and she slams her back into a hard wall, heart in her mouth threatening to choke her, chest locked. She breathes – _breathe – breathe_ – and looks – _right_ – Sharika glaring at her, like she'd done that on purpose – _forward_ – Sam staring down at her, nostrils flared, eyebrows drawn, heaving breaths – _left_ – swallow, and Dean's against the wall with her, gun loose and harmless between his hands, looking down at her, panting. There's something dark and heated in his face, something scary and desperate.

The split second that it takes for her to see this is gone – and Victoria, screaming again, arms jutting forwards, fingers like claws, lunges down at them – marred face spread in a grin of triumph as –

– Sharika, without even looking, held up her gun and shot the spirit in the face. Miss Sumner dissipates before their very eyes, with nary another sound, the wind dropping the tangled hair of the women back to their shoulders, the boys' clothes back to their bodies. There's a pause in which everyone blinks, and stares at each other in disbelief. _Uh…anticlimactic, much? _

And then Dean laughed. Stood next to her with his heart beating just as fast, his legs just as quivery-unsteady, propped against the wall as though it were the only thing keeping him upright, and said, that familiar quirk to one side of his mouth, laughing, eyes dark in the night, "Was it good for you?"

For one stunned second she stares at him, eyes wide and uncomprehending – she could have just _died, goddamnit_ – and then she closes her eyes and just gives in. Takes a dead girl's advice. Just lets herself go, _frees herself._ Lets it _all_ go. "Oh baby, you have no idea," she says, throws her head back to bare her throat, clutches her gun with shaky hands and laughs with him. "You have no idea."

And then they leave as fast as they can, without it looking like they were running away.

000

The next night they dig up and burn six separate sets of bones – or rotting corpses, really, because the _oldest_ one had only been decomposing for a _fortnight_ – and burn the scrap of red hair in Jesse Ramsis' locket. The church belfry is never plagued by Miss Sumner's misguided attempts at psychiatric consultancy ever again.

_Thank God. _

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I am so sick you guys had better love me for posting. Seriously, I cough every two seconds, sounding like a Sea world reject, and hacking up bile because nothing else wants to come out. Not that you guys needed to know that, I just wanted you to appreciate what I'm doing for you here, before I go and die. Yep.

I just wanted to know – are you guys losing interest in this? Because the reviews count dropped, and I don't want to pressure anyone or anything, I just get anxious when it happens. Withdrawal symptoms. Maybe that's why I'm sick. No, really. Tell me what's wrong or I can't fix it. Love you guys. _:flings self on people in half-drunk-from-meds ecstasy:_

_Promo: _

_Basically next week is the quarto and their reactions to each other again, to contrast last chapter. Weird plans involving jackets, heroes, gastric banding for the mind, and (since I haven't finished next week's chapter) anything else that can pop into my random mind at a second's notice. I haven't even named it yet… :goes and cries in a corner: Please don't hate me. I'll try and finish it soon. _

_Pixc_


	36. The World Repeats Itself Somehow

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36. The World Repeats Itself Somehow

_Man is free at the moment he wishes to be. _

_-- Voltaire_

The first step to ensure the success of your plan is to wear a big, bulky jacket. The kind that you'd only wear if you lived in Canada, or if there was a blizzard raging, and it was sub-zero degrees. That morning, wind whipping hair back from your eyes, cool air gliding over your exposed skin, you slide your arms into the thick, navy wool sleeves, meet her eyes, and send a curt nod across the parking lot. She nods back, turns away, and you flick a glance at the boys.

They hadn't noticed the silent exchange.

_Good. _

000

The second step is to be the one to pay at the gas station. When you stop midday, sun burning high in the sky, heating the asphalt and everything upwards, until there's an invisible shimmer burning the air, you slide out with Dean, climbing over Sam's lap like you have a million times before. Make sure to poke him in his side with your elbow, like always, the little surprised grunting noise he makes as the breath whooshes out of his chest making you giggle. He pretends to shove you off him, and you ruffle his hair, grin, and stick your tongue out. He slams the door in your face with an indignant squeak from the Impala, the air as it goes past inches from your nose almost cooling the sweat on your upper lip. He smirks at you from behind the glass, then turns away as Sharika asks him a question, lips moving soundlessly to your ears.

Everything is going perfectly.

If by 'perfectly' you meant 'you're melting into a puddle into the concrete from heatstroke because you can't take the damn stupid jacket off, and are having mutinous thoughts about why _she_ couldn't be the one doing this'. Just because you got the short straw _– well, actually the short quarter. If that makes any kind of sense. In any case, it went on Heads twice instead of Tails, damnit –_ and this is how you got here and it sucks. If that's what you considered 'perfect', then yeah, everything was just peachy. Seriously, was all this worth the sweltering and the weird looks Sam, Dean and the random shirtless guy topping up his truck gave you? Maybe not.

But otherwise, yeah. It was going straight to plan.

You smiled at Dean, offered to pay and get the requisite daily sugar and fat intake, and he flicks a look over your flushed face, still filling up, and shrugs. Nods. Ignoring the material of the jacket sticking to the skin of your back with sweat, you smile wider and saunter into the station, hoping, _hoping_ – and _there it is_. Pluck the box from the shelf, grab a handful of chocolate and candy bars, a couple of bags of chips, four bottles of soft drink – Diet Coke for Sammy, Coke for Dean, Sprite for you, a water for Sharika – and plop your pile of booty onto the counter. The clerk sends you a bored look, starts to ring up the toll, and you decline a bag for the box, slipping it under your arm under your jacket instead. Pay. Leave. Manoeuvre back into the Impala, dumping the regular snacks into the front seat for the boys to squabble over and climb into the rear.

"You get the goods?" she asks, and Sam offers her a Swizzle stick.

You just tuck the box into your bag while the boys are fighting over who gets the Cheetos, and smile.

000

The third step is good timing. Unfortunately, due to your job there's really no such thing, so the two of you decide on a bathroom break to fake sickness. The jacket you've been wearing all day helps with that at least, and when you come back with your face artfully done to make it look like you just revisited your lunch – red eyes, nose, cheeks, pale everything else – the boys don't ask questions.

After a quiet day in the car, you sweating under too many layers of clothing and the blanket Sharika tucked you into, pinching your cheek before you tried to covertly bite her – _to keep you warm_, _smirk_ – you pull up at a motel and bag a couple of rooms. She offers to stay behind when the sun starts to go down, and though the boys offer token protestations at first, your fabricated and well practiced retching noises, as well as the water you spasmodically throw into the toilet bowl from the empty soda bottles, dissuade their presence.

They leave as soon as they're politely able, scurrying off to the bar down the road to look for leads and beer. You wash your face with a cloth and bounce into the bedroom again, watching with her from behind a polka dotted curtain as the Impala peels out of the parking lot.

"Scared?" she asks, turning her face to eye you, and you grin.

"You wish."

000

It was war.

The mess, the stains of it are all over your hands and you can't get it off – it's clinging to your fingers, the in betweens, stuck under your nails, in your hair, on your clothes, to your face – and all you can do is hide behind the couch and wait. Cower, really. Because who wants to go through all of that again. Some of it is sticking your hair to the side of your face – along your temples, your jaw. You try and wipe it away on the back of your hand, and it comes away thick and dark. The unmistakable scent wafts up into your nostrils, and you swallow, hard, sneak a look over the top of the couch and duck down just as quickly as you popped up, another missile launching by over your head. You imagine you can feel the wind as it flies past – heart beating at your oesophagus, fast as any wild, cornered bird.

_Oh_ _yeah_, this was _so_ worth everything you'd gone through today.

You peek around the left side just as she's coming up, and heave, manage to smack her in the cheek, covering again as she lets loose a tiny scream. "Take that, bitch!" you yell to mask the desperate laughing sounds trying to force their way out of your throat, and hastily gather your ammo, knowing you've outstayed the welcome this hiding spot had offered. Look to the left, to the right, then _move. _

Scurry across the room to a bed, swerving and dodging the open fire she slings your way. Get hit right in the back – the sting flinching up to your shoulders – and throw yourself into the space between the beds, breathless, scooping your weapon closer to you, skin stinging slightly where she'd made her mark. _This_ _is going to be a bitch to clean up later_, you think, and look over what you have left. Not much – but with calculated strategy, good timing and aim, you just might be able to win this.

And then she's right there – slathered hand coming out and smashing right into the middle of your face and up your nose and you choke, reach out blindly with your weapon fitted perfectly into your own palm – and it goes, all down the side of her neck – you reach up for her forehead – and then the two of you are rolling on the floor, cursing and yelling and trying to get on top – determination and arrogance and the desire to _win – you're going to win – show her – _slam her back into the floor, weapon raised high, triumph glittering on your teeth and you –

"Cookie dough? You guys are fighting with _cookie dough?!"_ comes a familiar, incredulous masculine voice from the doorway, and you blink wet clumps off of your eyelashes to see Sam and Dean standing there, looking – well, kind of stunned. You hadn't even noticed the sounds of the Impala pulling up, the door opening, so involved were you in the midst of your battle. The moment stretches, the details blurring until all you can see is the boy's shocked faces, wide hazel green and blue green eyes, the open door. You climb off your perch on Sharika's thighs and offer her a hand up, smears of the uncooked dough standing out like war paint on your pink cheeks.

"Yep," Sharika said, as she takes your hand and you pull her up. "It's fun."

And then you giggle helplessly. "Well, actually, if it makes you feel any better – it's _double choc chip_ cookie dough that we're fighting with," you offer sheepishly, and look down at your hands. The thick covering of chocolate beckons you, and you stick your index finger in your mouth, lick all around the coating, and smile at the boys around it, suck. "Oh," you continue indistinctly as an afterthought as they continue to just stand there, Sam's mouth starting to curl, Dean's eyebrows rising comically high, "What are you guys doing back?"

"Hey guys, can you please close the door? The AC's on." Even covered in mush Sharika strove to be polite. In accordance, you strove not to roll your eyes.

And failed.

They come in and close the door. "I thought you were sick," Sam says, voice thick with amusement, as he shrugs out of his jacket and eyes the dough-mottled chair next to him before shrugging again and sticking it on the cleanest spot he can find.

"Surprise?" you say, and grin. _Suck. _

"You girls went through all this to – what? Throw uncooked baking goods at each other?" Dean asks, shaking his head, eyebrows beetled. What, he never played cookie dough war? Or played pranks? Took out some time for _fun? _

"All what?" Sharika and you ask simultaneously, innocence abounding, then wince. The fast paced, too easy answers damn you both. You know, if the chocolate strewn everywhere, and the image of you sitting on her hadn't already given you away irreversibly. You sigh and try not to shuffle your feet, feeling kind of like a small child being scolded by their parent for dragging mud into the house.

_Really good tasting mud, _you think, and replace your index with your middle finger, taking the first out of your mouth with an obscene popping noise. _Oh, and this one has a white choc chip. _You close your eyes half way in bliss, stifle a moan.

"The – the jacket thing," Dean manages after a second of blinking, and you cock your head to the side. _What's he thinking? Is he really that mad? It'll only take a little while to clean, really…_ "Lauren's 'sickness', the fake vomiting – which was really quite realistic, by the way – and hiding the box." Dean's staring at the two of you like he can't quite believe his eyes, though that's mostly hidden beneath a variation his _are you stupid? _look at the moment. He's staring particularly hard at you, you notice – _probably placing all the blame on you in his head, when it was really all SHARIKA'S…okay, yeah, it was your fault_. Well, more specifically, he's staring at your mouth. You wonder how ridiculous you look with dark, sticky clumps of dough spread all over your cheeks, in your eyebrows, your hairline, under your chin. The child-mud analogy was possibly more accurate than you'd first thought.

Sharika's emulating you on your left side, making the same loud sucking noises, and trying to clean all the chocolate off her hands without wasting it – because, seriously? Uh, _YUM_ – and you wait to hear anything else the boys want to say. It's not really like its any of their problem really; you and she were the ones who had to sleep here. And they'd been sweet, caring about the two of you, or whatever – _being suspicious, more like_ – coming back to check that you two weren't fighting again – and then they'd heard the cursing and shouting and the noises the furniture made when the two of you had rolled into it while fighting for dominance on the floor, so…

"And – and – just be sure to clean it up, okay?!"

Dean turns and storms out of the room, and you shoot a questioning glance at Sam. He doesn't notice – he's a little busy in a dreamlike trance, eyes vague and mouth slightly open while he watches Sharika lick her fingers. You cough loudly and he jerks. "Oh – yeah, um," he stutters, picks up his jacket, glances away. "I've – I've gotta, uh… I got to go. With Dean. Right now." And he follows his brother out the door, closing it behind him with a _definitely-not-desperate-to-escape _click.

"What the hell was that?" you ask Sharika, chest shaking with the effort to hold in your laughter – Sam's look was priceless. She shrugs.

"With Dean? I don't know, probably he saw that we were having fun when we were supposed to be doing work. You know how serious Dean can be about the job sometimes. What was wrong with Sam? The sudden awkwardness, I mean?"

"I don't know," you say, deciding not to let her in on the boys plus long things in female mouths thing with the licking thingy equals… yeah. You just keep quiet.

She studies the chocolate covered motel room. You can almost see her itching to clean, the neat fairy inside her wailing at the dark brown smudges on the wall, ground into the carpet, on your clothing. You have a similar compulsion to attack the chocolate – with your mouth. But considering the state of the motel room's hygiene – _questionable, at best – _restrain yourself. "Want to clean up now?"

You muster up a thoughtful expression, reaching behind you to scratch your back. "Not yet," you say – and push the handful you'd found there into her face, laughing.

000

Your eyes are closed tight – and yet the sun still manages to shine through, a bright yellow-white spangle on the back of your eyelids. It makes you groan and wish for darkness, almost. Okay, completely. You'd kill for more sleep, though death sounds like an equally wonderful option at this point. Anything involving loss of consciousness. Your nose twitches and you sneeze, dust motes crawling up your nostrils, then try and snuggle into your own shoulder, to block the light with flesh. It doesn't work, and you pull your other arm over your face, creating shadow. Head leaning against the window pane, hair tickling the corner of your eye, you grasp at sleep's receding edges, crawl and cry for it, and curse Sam's penchant for early rising. You'd only grabbed an hour before having to leave the motel room.

_Damn him. _

You make this little involuntary snuffling sound, press your forearm harder, tighter against your eyes, and ignore Dean's snort from next to you, the rhythm he's tapping onto the rim of the steering wheel. It sounds like _Peace of Mind,_ which means something's got his panties in a bunch. Something you're not in the mood to get into, because _sleep. Sleep, Goddamnit, please come back. _Sam's in the little trucker diner next to you – he'd decided you didn't have time to eat in this morning, and was grabbing some chow for all of you. _If you don't have time at four o'clock in the morning, when will you ever?_ Sharika's in the back, flashlight trained on a book on the state of Nebraska's temperature ranges, as she compares it to the print out sheet she has on supposedly erratic weather patterns over that way. You're in Lincoln at the moment – and even though you try and shove away any coherent thoughts, try to stay blank, stay half way in slumber – you start _thinking._ You suppose it wouldn't be a horrible stretch to head over to Omaha for some hunting, though anything that can mess up the weather is something you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley at night. Those sons of bitches were _difficult, _not relatively simple, like the garden-variety ghost hunts. Plus, there's the geographical angle. God, you hate the city. But then, you hate the country too. Both of them have their upsides, but they have their _worse_ downsides. In the city you have to be more careful about getting caught, you have so many more people crowding you, watching you, paranoid. Security cameras around every freaking corner. In the country hunts were generally more difficult to track and trace, the spirits and the supernatural entities older and more powerful. Things in the country had _history_, puke, vomit, gag.

_Please sleep? Please? You can offer a half stale cookie, empty soda cans and a quarter? _Sleep didn't reply.

Loud, high squeal of metal behind you and you jerk, peer over your shoulder at Sam, his long frame climbing, folding in on itself, adjusting, lanky muscles contracting, expanding, quieting as he settles into the upholstery next to Sharika. "Awake yet?" he asks you, and you blink at him, eyes bleary.

And grunt.

He grins, that too wide, careless one, the one that is far too cheerful for you to handle in the morning, because _Jesus_, caffeine should alwayscome before excessive cheer – _always –_ and started handing out bags and Styrofoam cups. Dean set his down next to him on the seat, brown paper with a white and black logo crinkling and leaning against his thigh as he dived straight into his coffee. You pretend not to hear his quiet, heartfelt moan and sigh after the first undoubtedly hot, straight black swallow, envy clustering in the back of your neck, fighting for dominance with the need for sleep. Sharika thanks Sam as she receives hers, placing the cup between her knees and the bag between her teeth; the moves don't even stop the skimming of her eyes over rows of tiny typed facts and data, eyebrows drawn in slightly, line sketched on her forehead, fingers curled around the pen in her slim fingers.

"Don't suppose you want this," Sam said casually, fucking _beaming_ into your face and holding a cup of coffee just out of your reach. The broad, delicious smell tickles your nose, and you narrow your eyes.

_Don't suppose you want a punch in the face,_ you think, but all that comes out of your lips is another indistinguishable mumble-grumble-grunt, and you swipe clumsily for the cup. He jerks it away, dangling it between his fingers and you try not to whimper. You can already _taste _the caffeine, the hot, undulating, full-bodied flavour of it on your tongue, the automatic shot of energy it'd give you, straight to your centre. It's not fucking _fair, _you _want _it, you want it_ now, _and he isn't _giving _it to you. You aren't going to beg. You _aren't. _

Not unless he takes much longer.

You make another desperate grab, but you're half-dead and uncoordinated, haven't had enough sleep in god knows when, and he's _perky _and smirking. Your hand drops, and your head droops, and then he just smiles, knowing he's won and gives it to you, your fingers wrapping around the hot, slipping condensation, instinct bringing it straight to your mouth, tilting, the plastic jamming up against your nose as you take a grateful slurp. You close your eyes in bliss.

The rumble of the Impala starts under your thighs, a dim vibration shuddering through your whole body, and you let your head roll back on your neck, your body slumping on the seat. When you manage to pry your eyes open again you see Sam, still smiling at you, taking slow sips of his coffee.

He has two brown paper bags on his lap.

"Wha's tha'?" you slur, pointing vaguely, and the smile widens, curves piling on top of each other, his eyes crinkling. Okay, you really hope he doesn't take that sexually. Because it's _Sam, _even if you were totally leaving yourself open to that and gesturing at his lap. If it had been Dean you just know he'd be all, 'never seen one before, have you sweetheart?' and you know you'd just _die _and –

"The last blueberry muffin," he said, slow and easy, picking it up and holding it out, looking straight into your eyes. Thoughts clogged. "For you."

"My hero," you said, and took it.

000

"Hey."

"Hey," you say back, smile at Sharika as you slide into the booth. "What's up?"

Her solemn look automatically makes your caution rise. Rightly so, you find. "I just thought, you know, that while the boys aren't here we could have a talk."

_Oh man. _You'd _known_ when she said she wanted _'a quiet night in'_ that she hadn't meant it. That's why when you got her call at the bar, Sam next to you, trying to find some more leads on his dad – he was checking emails from his dad's old hunting friends, or something – and Dean chatted up women at the pool table, you hadn't been surprised. Had, in fact, finished the one beer you'd been nursing for over an hour, and left with a wink at Sam. You'd told him you wouldn't be staying long, and, as per usual, were right. Still, you hadn't known what she'd wanted until now. And now that you did, you wished you were back at the bar with smoke stinging your eyes and nostrils, and too loud Bad Company classics ringing in your ears.

God, you loved Bad Company. Well, unless you were forced to keep it. Damn.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you instead place one elbow onto the table, trying to evade the questionably sticky spots that the waitress hadn't come round to clean yet, and plop your chin into your hand to look up at her with big eyes. They're not as potent as a puppy look, but its half way. Just enough to show a little exasperation mixed in with the humour. "Don't you think we've had enough of those, really? _Seriously?_ Because me? I've had enough to last for the next decade and a half. Maybe longer. First Dean, then Dean _again_, though involuntarily – man I hated that Sumner bitch – and with you, same deal. And now you want another? Honey, I wouldn't do it for a million dollars. Okay, maybe a _million_, but otherwise –" you smile at her cheekily, and leave off. She gets the idea, you're sure. And you were telling the truth – really, you don't think you could bear another deep and meaningful any time soon.

Things between you this past week – since your dual possession, confession, kiss, kiss, blah, blah – had been fantastic. Absolutely wonderful. Better than it had been the whole time since she'd come back, really. There were no other words for it. The two of you were _clicking,_ on that essential level that you'd had during the first stages of your friendship. Getting whatever the other meant instinctively, being in sync hunting-wise – even if all you'd been doing was research on temperature ranges – finishing each others' sentences, laughing, having _fun_ with each other, and just talking. Man, you'd stayed up for three nights in a row talking about your adventures the year you'd been apart. You wondered why she hadn't brought up whatever it was she wished to talk about one of those times. Maybe it just wasn't _seemly_ to talk about it with the lights out, the two of you giggling on separate beds before you finally just bounded over to sit on hers – or on her. You'd forgotten how ticklish she was, but now you remembered, made calculated and gleeful use of it – often.

None of it was tainted any more, you felt. Your relationship. Not by the bitterness, or unspoken words, or anything. You could thank that ghost for this small mercy, at least. But that didn't mean you wanted to start splashing your guts over the walls any time soon. You deserved a little peace, you felt – a little easiness. No more fighting, or too-serious chats for you. No fries with that.

Besides, it weirded you out a little, it felt like you were breaking the rules, giving into something that was out of bounds because of how you'd conditioned yourself to be, and a miniscule, defeatist part of you couldn't help believing that it wasn't going to _last_. You'd been through so much, and although it was fun, and you loved this, and you loved ­_her_ – unquestionably – it was still fragile. It could still be broken. Whatever. You're not thinking about that, you're living in the _present. _

She's raising an eyebrow at you, and you sigh, settling in for the long haul, affecting nonchalance. You've known her so long you can read her facial expressions like flash cards, and this one is telling you – no ifs, ands or buts – that you aren't getting out of this until she says what she wants to. You'll just have to listen and try not to think too much, or say something that could lead into something _else _that you really don't want to have to deal with. Okay, so you've learnt – make that _been taught_ – not to hoard all your emotions to yourself; but that didn't mean you had to let _everything _out. They didn't expect you to start talking about how finding your cat run over when you were twelve scarred you for life, or anything, right? What would be the point? On the same level, talking about something as idiotic as, say, the fact that John knows a lot more than he's telling, apparently – stuff that affects not only the boys and their demon, but Sharika and hers. God, John was such a repressive little _bitch _sometimes. It was completely annoying how he kept all these secrets and expected everyone else around him to just automatically trust him and bend to his every whim. Yeah, you're going to stop thinking about that, before Sharika notices your hands clenching on the table top. Let go, let _go. _

You let go, and sigh, lean back farther into the squeaking faux leather of the chair and flick your eyes around for a waitress. What do you have to do to get a Danish around here? Of course, thoughts of Danishes, and custard, and almonds, and golden pastry starts you off on the whole you're-thinking-about-screwing-Dean-senseless thing. A weird connection – golden, Dean's _skin_, Dean, _Dean_, Dean _naked_, _you_ naked, you _and_ Dean naked, you and Dean naked _together_ with Dean's golden skin… You've been thinking about it even more than usual. It wasn't fair – kissing in a fucking belfry, before you were cock-blocked by a _spirit. _Okay, and maybe you're thinking about mentioning that to Sharika – the whole you, crazy insane lust, Dean, naked skin thing – because, god, she's been repressing her instincts to do the nasty with guys how many years now? She's sure to have some great tips. But if she's not going to bring it up, you're sure as hell not gonna. It does _not_ need to be verbalised. It's not anything _new, _and you're sure Sharika knows anyway. It must be twenty nine kinds of obvious. And it doesn't really mean anything, and nor is it anything _important. _

Okay, yeah. You just have to convince your libido about that particular issue. Forbidden fruit never looked as luscious as Dean's mouth when he was biting his lip while driving, or that sulky pout he got when he was reading something particularly long winded. _God_. Not the time to think about that. You're in far enough, thank you.

And seriously? You really need to get one of those lap bands – what is it? Gastric banding? Laparoscopic gastric banding, if you were listening to Sam properly when he went off on one of his information splurges, where he Wikipedia tripped, and blurted out the text to a completely uninterested audience. In this case, you. Anyways, yeah, you need one of those lap bands, except not for your stomach, for your _BRAIN_. One that restricts lustful thoughts. You should be able to have some teeny tiny lustful thoughts, and that'd keep you happy for hours, until you had another little binge. That'd keep you sane, and healthy, and totally able to resist jumping Dean as though he were a giant custard and almond Danish that you just wanted to gobble up and – oh, _god_ you are so screwed. Before you could totally put off the instinct to jump him – not entirely, but enough to stop yourself, right? – because of Sharika, and all those angsty issues. But now you're pretty much in the clear with all that, what was there to keep you back?

You know, except for the whole unrequited love deal, and you are so, _so_ dead. It didn't stop you before. You had _more_ issues before and it hadn't stopped you. Okay, okay. _He_ doesn't want it. Except _that_ home truth was also looking more grey because of that whole inhibition loss thing, and the shapeshifter thing, and you remember that spirit, Randy or something? After the library? And how you two almost did it in that squishy little alcove? Oh, and that time in the shower – and why is Sharika still staring at you, wordless, with this little smile on her face like she knows exactly what you're thinking about?

You haven't been babbling this _out loud _have you?

"Hey! Can I get a coffee over here?" you yelled, a little desperately, and beamed wide and eager and fake at Sharika. "You going to start, or just sit there staring at me? Something on my face?"

No, you definitely hadn't been talking aloud. Thank god.

"I was just wondering… didn't my leaving have any effect on you?"

Okay… uh, what? Totally not what you were expecting. And what are you supposed to say to that? 'I was in a self-inflicted coma until the motel manager pounded on my door telling me to drag myself out of there before he called the cops, or to pay for another fucking day'? Yeah, that was a real pride-saver. Plus you're pretty sure you told her how broken up you were at some point… then again, thinking it over, maybe not. You told Dean but not _her? _Huh. Still, is this really the time to get into such things? And yeah, do you want to expose possibly the worst days of your adult life to her eyes? You don't think anything happened to _her_, that she did anything like that – you know, because she left you, and it was her decision, and yeah, maybe John told her to but she chose to do it – and what is this? Another tangent about issues you're even now not one hundred percent sure on? Christ. You wonder if you're tired. Because you're _really_ energetic, and erratic, and that was not a good thing – being wired this late in the day – night – was it morning yet? Yeah, you need coffee. Like, now. "Well, I wasn't throwing any parties, if that's what you mean."

"_Lauren_," she said in her warning voice, and you rolled your eyes. Well, actually, you pretended to roll your eyes while you _actually _searched behind Sharika for the waitress. She was still bent near a guy on the opposite side of the room; head cocked and face serious and open as they talked. Was everyone having deep-and-meaningfuls tonight? Just – just no. You need coffee. And you need to –

"Yeah, okay," you sighed, and hated yourself. Your mouth needs a gag. Or maybe a muzzle. Or maybe you should get your tongue cut out. You just can't keep anything to yourself, can you? "There was this whole thing." You waved your hand dismissively, slumping further in your seat, tapping the fingers of your right hand on the sticky table. "I didn't leave the motel room until that creepy manager guy – you remember him? – with the goatee and really small eyes, he told me I had to leave, or pay for another night. I left." See, that wasn't so hard now, was it? Of course, it wasn't everything, but it was – well, it was enough. Truth enough to tide even her over, you hoped. "How about you, Blondie? Do anything fun? Sacrifice a goat, spear a native? Buy a new pair of underwear?"

"Lauren, did you ever wonder why I was skinnier than before? When you first saw me?"

_Uh… you're skinnier than before? _"Because you grew?" You inject all the guileless questioning you can into your voice, widening your eyes and not faking it one hundred percent. Yeah, you'd wondered a little. But it _had_ been a year, and her features were still settling into maturity. You'd noticed the slimmer features, the less rounded cheeks, and, okay, so maybe she'd lost weight and you'd realised. But so had you, and that hadn't meant anything in particular. Doing all the physical work by yourself, no partner – well, it was a fairly active lifestyle. Those poor, innocent carbs never had a chance.

_Wait, had she gone anorexic or something?!_

"No," Sharika huffed, crossed her arms. Your eyes flickered away from her brown ones, to the cup of coffee before her on the table. So maybe it had excess creamer in it. So what? It was still coffee. Wasn't it? Maybe it was tea. She didn't like coffee. But you didn't like tea. Still, you could settle, since it still looked like you weren't about to get any actual coffee anytime soon. Maybe if you left on that excuse – that'd totally let you leave this weird ass conversation – although, you would have to come back _eventually_ – upside being by then you might have coffee and – _damnit. _"Because I hadn't been eating properly. I spent a whole week energised by a single peanut."

At that your eyebrows were raising – incredulous, a little critical, maybe even some sarcasm mixed in there. You had to stifle a smile. It wasn't funny she'd practically starved herself – and it made you feel a little better that, hey, maybe you weren't the only torn up one – but a _peanut? _"Dude, you're weird."

"Shut up. You're weirder."

"Nuh uh."

"Yah huh. Lauren, I spent _weeks_ in a motel room, moping like a –"

"Headless chicken?"

She shook her head, eyebrows meeting in the middle as she stared at you. _What_? Headless chickens can't mope? And it's not your fault you had the urge to just plonk that in there. It just came out. It was you. Hell, this open-mouth syndrome was a trait of yours that she exploited on various occasions; she should be used to it by now. Even if strange stuff blurted out. Hell – _especially_ if strange stuff blurted out. Did you mention you could really go for some caffeine right now? Well, even something masquerading as caffeine, like the coffee these places generally tended to serve – burnt engine oil spiked with sugar. "How would headless chickens be mopey Lauren?"

You thought about it for a second, fingertips scuttling across the tabletop, near her cup, back and forth, near and far, back and forth, you're almost – "Well, I'm pretty sure they must have some awareness that they're dying, right?"

"_Right_," she said, drawing it out. "Lauren, they're already dead, it's just their body reacting. They have no consciousness. Anyways, I was thinking, more like a man about to walk the green mile."

Your head shot up from watching your hands. "Wait, the Eminem movie?" She _saw _that? Dude, all you saw was when it came on the television that one time, right in this scene where there were boxes and that blonde chick and Eminem doing it standing, and seriously, although that wasn't wholly a _bad _thing it was still a little shocking when you were launched right into it with no warning – and wait, what were you talking about?

If anything she looked even more disbelieving than before. "No, that's _8_ mile. The green mile is the walk from the jail cell to the death chamber."

"Oh, so it's that guy what's-his-face? Tom… Tom…" For the life of you, you just couldn't seem to grasp that guy's last name –

"Hanks." _Oh, right. How could you forget that? Forest Gump was like, heartbreaking. _"Back to the point."

"What point? Didn't you already say it, you anorexic? You know I'm going to be watching everything you eat from now on, right?"

"Lauren, I am not anorexic."

"Yeah, okay. Whatever."

She leaned forwards across the tabletop, capturing your eyes with hers, smiling that sweet, free smile that you'd seen so often lately, but still couldn't get enough of. Considering the amount of time you'd gone without it before – a year and a half, or something equally insane like that – she should smile like that _all_ the time. You'd been outdoing yourself, trying to put it on her face as often as possible. You were stocking up on good memories until the next time the two of you had a fight. Like cookie dough war – god, you hadn't done that since you were seventeen. And that had _originally_ been an accident. "There are still so many things I have to tell you," she said, and you smiled back, tucked a wayward curl behind your ear.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Like what?"

"Good evening, ladies. What can I get you?"

Your eyes reached up and connected with a pair of blue ones, a small, rounded woman looking down at your booth and smiling, holding a pot of coffee in her plump hands. _Do not stare at it as though it is the Holy Grail. Just – just don't, mmkay? _"Can I get a cup of Joe, please?" you asked, and smiled back. "Oh, and do you have any Danishes?"

"'Course honey," she said, and fished a cup out of her apron, proceeding to place it on the table and pour the sacred black liquid – uh, _coffee_, you meant _coffee_ – into it. You were _not _going to ask. Okay, who the hell carries cups around in their aprons? Is that sanitary? How often did it get washed? How close was it to certain portions of her anatomy – "Apricot, or custard and apple?"

_Damnit. _"I was hoping for an almond one, actually," you say, and pick up the cup she's sliding over to you, take a slow, grateful sip. _Ah, god. How do I love thee? Who knew that small, green and red beans could bring such endless pleasure?_

"How about you, lovely?" she says, turning to Sharika, running her eyes over your friend's calm countenance. "Men don't like their women all skin and bones. Need a bit to hold onto, keep 'em warm at night." And she _winked. _

You almost snorted coffee out of your nose – but, of course, resisted, because that would be a huge waste of the precious fluid.

_Mine._

_Dude, you totally need to sleep. You should probably stop drinking the coffee, because you're totally hyped up already, and knowing you something BAD will probably happen if you continue along this path. _

…_Uh, coffee? _

…_You're right. Please continue to satisfy your sick addiction. _

Sharika had said something to get rid of the woman while you were locked in internal debate with your self – and seriously, yeah, you probably really need to sleep because now your hands are starting to shake. It was really probably a tad stupid to stay up all night, for the past three nights, talking, especially when you couldn't sleep in the Impala, and ate a very unhealthy diet, and also had a hunt coming up soon that was going to draw a lot of energy from you and – _ooh, coffee_. You took another swallow.

"As I was saying –"

"Did you order anything?" you interrupted, peering around her with interest, craning your head to see if the woman – _why hadn't you looked at her name tag? Weren't you supposed to be observant or some such?_ – was coming back any time soon, baked goodies in tow. You wouldn't even care if they'd been in her apron for some duration. You just really wanted pastry. Or maybe Dean. Although, that'd be weird. You're sure diners don't stock Winchesters. And yeah, because you wouldn't eat _his _skin, you aren't a cannibal, and dude, it wouldn't be flaky like a Danish, right? That would just be _eww_ – he hadn't had flaky skin last time you'd seen his chest, or whatever – wait, how did he keep his skin so well moisturised? Seriously, your elbows practically had dandruff – when was the last time you shopped? You need to stock up on stuff like that. Yep. Where are the pastries? You don't want a Danish anymore because fruit right now? Just no. But maybe she has jam rolls. Or a doughnut. You could totally go for a doughnut, with like, chocolate icing and little colourful rainbow sprinkles –

"Lauren, are you alright?" Sharika asked, and her eyes were concerned. She looked blurred around the edges. Hey! So did the rest of this skeezy diner. Ha, skeezy. How many places like this have you been in your life? Wow. You should totally start counting. Like, when was the first? It must have been that time with Caleb, when you were like, fourteen, and he decided he was taking you to teach you how to play darts and hustle like that and you ended up only watching him play because the dudes wouldn't 'cheat a little pipsqueak like yourself'. So that was one. And then –

When you blinked you realised you'd been silent for a way longer time than was strictly safe, tallying and ticking off bar and diner visits in your head, and started. _Quick_ – _wait_ – what was her question? "Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm peachy. Did you? Order anything, I mean. I'm starving."

"You only had dinner a couple of hours ago."

"'M a growing boy," you said sarcastically, and swallowed more coffee. It was too thick and scalded the roof of your mouth, but you ignored that fact, saying, "I'll take that as a 'no, no baked goodies are coming our way any time soon'."

"Did you seriously just say goodies?"

There was a small pause. "Oh my god. Yes. I did. I need to wash my mind clean with mullet rock. Quickly, before that song comes into my head. You know the one."

"I know the one. Just listen to the Fleetwood Mac they have on right now – it's sure to calm you."

"Dude! _Tell me lies!_ I haven't heard this song in like, forever." And then you started humming. Oh yeah, you're tired. _Really _tired. And maybe tone-deaf. Or maybe you just can't hum. Or maybe you need more coffee.

Or sleep.

_Mmm… sleep. _

_Coffee or sleep? Sleep or coffee? Coffee or sleep? Sleep or –_

"Lauren?"

"Yeah? Oh, right. What were the things you had to tell me? I know there's a lot more I still have to tell you." _Although, really, you don't think you'll be able to stay awake for another night, even if it involves talk of iguana suits and the stalking of children clad thusly. Sharika had really had a weird year. _

"Seriously, you would not believe. Nothing you can imagine is as bad as what happened."

"Care to elaborate?" _More coffee. Mine. Hey! This spoon is like, really shiny. You can totally see your face in it. _It's like, the cleanest diner spoon you've ever seen. Usually they have those really small, hard flecks of food still encrusted to them, and you have to scratch them off with your fingernail, which is _totally_ disgusting, and then you have to wipe it on your napkin, and even then it _totally_ wouldn't be as clean as THIS spoon right here._ Oh, wow, is your nose seriously that big? Ha, your eyebrows looked totally fucked from this angle. _

"There was this one time –"

"Hey, did you know Sam masturbates over you?"

Oh. Oh, hey. You didn't mean to bring that up. Where had it even come from? You bite your lip, and though it seriously gives you pains in that place where your caffeine addicted, dried up husk was instead of a heart, push the still half full – half _empty –_ cup away from you. No, no you are going to _resist_ the dark call of the coffee. You really, truly are. Wait. But what if you start to pass out? You're really tired, and coffee keeps you awake, because it's a stimulant, and stimulants keep you awake, and you – wait, why do you have to stay awake? The tabletop actually looks pretty comfortable. And this was a trucker diner so it'd be open all night, and they wouldn't kick a paying customer out, right?

You wonder if your hair would mate with the sticky stains. And if you could watch.

"How do you know?"

"Oh, I hear things. And I have nightmares. Thank you."

"Well, _Dean_ –"

"Yeah, he knows too. Sammy isn't exactly quiet, you know. Or discreet. Or long-lasting." You pause for a second, then, at the shocked look on Sharika's face, start babbling – you mean, explaining. _Explaining. _Because you wouldn't want to portray him in a bad light, and you really need those two to get together and have kinky sex, or even, you know, boring missionary sex, so you don't have to deal with all the annoying denial and blah, whatever, that the two of them are going through, and if she thinks he's only a two minute noodle it's not likely to happen, is it? Well, okay, even less likely to happen than it was _originally. _"But you really can't hold that against him, the poor guy's in mourning, and hasn't had sex in like, _ages_, plus he's totally got this whole unresolved sexual tension thing going on with _someone_ that he's in daily contact with, and I often wonder if he has chafing because he does it so often."

"Uh, what?"

"I don't know. I also actually don't know why I even brought this up. Thinking about Sammy going all Hans Solo on Darth Vader's head, or being otherwise engaged in any kind of canoodling, totally isn't my idea of a good time. You, I can't vouch for. Still… wait, I don't think I actually have a point."

"You're tired, aren't you?"

"Exhausted. What's your favourite euphemism for self-induced penile regurgitation?"

"That's what I thought. You usually only act this cracked when you haven't had enough sleep. I don't even want to know what you've been sitting there thinking about. Especially if it involves a Winchester."

"I'm not a cannibal, mmkay?"

"Right. Check, please?"

000

_In bed, too close to sleep. Drift, drift… the ceiling is really weirdly coloured. Like, what was that? The lights outside? Your leg is jerking. You shouldn't have had coffee. You wonder what the boys are doing. Are they back yet? Had Sam found any leads on his father? What's Dean – _

"How much do you love him?" _Whisper in the dark._

_Grunt. Turn over. Wha? _"Papa Smurf? He's my soul mate. Wait, what are we talking about?"

_Sigh. _"Dean."

"Oh." _Pause. Shift. Sigh._ "Well, as much as I hate him, possibly."

"You are so screwed."

"Uh, yeah. Sam?"

_Rushed. _"I don't love him."

"And you accuse _me _of being in denial." _Mutter. _"Ferret Lady." _Roll. Sleep. _

000

In the morning everything was looking much better, clearer – and you had enough of a handle on yourself to be sure that you weren't going to start mouthing off about Sam and how often he battled the purple headed yoghurt slinger. Ah, euphemisms. How could you live without them? Anyways, yes. Never again. You hope. Because really? That was maybe_ the_ scariest topic in the universe. Even if everything you'd said had been true.

And you could really kill for a Danish.

"Anyone up for breakfast?" you asked, trooping into the boy's motel room with a mile wide grin, a spring in your step, and no dark purple circles under your eyes – _finally_. Unfortunately, your mouth sometimes has _the _worst timing. Remember that whole, boys-not-having-any-fucking-modesty thing? Yeah. Sam was just going into the bathroom, stepping out of his boxers and Dean was just dropping his towel.

He was definitely up for breakfast.

"Shut the damn door!" he yelled at you, and you reacted on instinct, slamming it and spinning around, putting your back to it and breathing hard. Your breath had kind of frozen somewhere up in your mouth, and your heart was stuttering. Even though you were facing the faded lines of the parking lot now, all you could see was the warm sunlight streaming into illuminate the whole motel room and dance on his _wet, gleaming body_. _Oh. Oh god. Skin. Long, sleek, perfect muscles. Water drops, gliding – down – down. Biceps and chest and legs and thighs and oh god. Oh god. You are so, so screwed. _

When the boys come out a couple of minutes later, tossing the duffels into the back of the Impala you pretend _nothing_ had happened. That is, of course, until Dean said, "See anything you liked?" to you on the sly, grinning as Sharika and Sam fiddled around, arguing companionably over their usual task of getting all the bags to fit properly in the trunk.

You couldn't just take that, of course. "Couldn't see anything," you answered him flippantly, and shook your head, affecting sadness. Then you smirked. "I didn't have a microscope on hand."

000

By lunch time you'd scoped out the town, and spoken to three climatologists. They were fascinated by the weather changes in the area, and hypothesised – with an excess of enthusiasm and uncertainty – that it had something to do with a couple of cold fronts heading down from the north.

Sam had a different theory.

"Witch," he said, straight off the bat when the four of you met back up at the motel. You'd split into pairs – you and Sharika, Sam and Dean – to cover more ground that day. You'd gone to a couple of different universities to ask the resident experts, only to confirm what Sharika had already deduced from her giant textbook. The weather was fucking messed up. _La di DUH. _"A witch or a demon. Nothing else has the power to mess around with the weather like this – sprites and elementals aren't malicious, so it's not them, and nothing else fits. Because there's _not_ a pattern, it's irregular. Hail one day, so hot the pavement's melting the next. I'm betting on a witch; the weather can be affected by their moods, or certain spells and incantations. Like witch doctors in Africa – everyone knows about rain dances, right? If you look here –"

And he went on to explain in graphic detail himself. You were surprised that he didn't have a chart and one of those pointer thingies – oh, and that Sharika wasn't taking notes with a pen and a Hello Kitty notepad, because she was leaning forwards with big eyes and nodding so hard you wondered whether or not to strap her in her chair for her own safety. Or maybe you could just clamp her whole head to a board. Or –

Okay, yes. You're in a bad mood. It's all Dean's fault.

See, if he got changed in the bathroom _like a normal person_, this morning wouldn't have _happened._ And you – okay, yeah, you'd still be thinking about straddling him right now and practicing your bull riding technique. Except _maybe_ when the other two were gone. Unless they wanted to join in – which would just be so wrong. So, so wrong. Yeah. You are so horny you're even considering letting your best friend and Sam watch. Okay, not really. You don't miss sex that much. That is, you miss sex. Fuck, you _really_ miss sex. But you're not going to have any with anyone except Dean – and not where others can see you – and you know, love really sucks cock.

Unlike you.

Unfortunately.

_Goddamnit. _You are so pissed right now.

"Okay, so it's a witch. How do we find her and tell her to stop acting like she's God on ecstasy?" Dean asked, looking up from sharpening his Bowie knife for the first time since his brother had started yabbering.

And that's where Sam was stumped. "There's actually no way that I can find to do that," he said, looking down at his pages of notes, the books spread in front of him, John's journal. "Dad didn't have anything to say about it, and none of the sources I looked into had references to this kind of thing. I think the best we can do is try and find her, speak to her. Try and get her to stop."

"And _how_ do we find her, Sammy?" Dean reiterated, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh…"

"We could try and pinpoint where the weather fluxes originate," Sharika said, and pointed to the map spread out next to her on the bed, tapped it with one slim brown finger. "We know it's in this town because it's the only area affected, but if we talk to some people maybe we can narrow it down to a smaller location. A house, or a street, maybe."

"Yeah, and then how do we find the actual witch?" you piped up. You folded your arms and gave everyone a slow, assessing look, leaning back in your chair. "Not to burst the bubble, but it's like looking for a voodoo pin in a haystack. Annoying, and fruitless; if we find it, potentially painful. Witches look like everyone else, and they don't give off EMF, or any other signs of supernatural activity." This is because witches were essentially human. They just had a bit of extra genetic kick, like Sharika. But not exactly. See, a witch was connected with nature and drew their power from that – Sharika, well, her power was all inside of her. Mental, not physical. If that made any kind of sense. Man, this hunt is going to be fucked five ways to Sunday. Ones involving humans always were – you couldn't just _kill_ a human. You had to deal and bargain and _think_ before you acted. There were moral guidelines that even the four of you adhered to. This was one. Sacrificing any animals larger than a rabbit was another. "What are we going to do; go up to every person we see and ask to join the coven? Or to be taken to the High Priestess? We'll probably be locked up for antagonising the public."

"You got any better ideas?" Dean asked, flicking you a look, and you sighed.

"No, obviously. I'm just pointing out the futility."

"Well, until we have a better plan, we'll stick with this." Dean smiled at Sharika, and she smiled back, then he went back to sharpening his knife. Long, slow strokes with the whetting stone. Hissing noise. Metallic smell. He makes it look obscene.

You hate him.

But it's probably a good thing he and Sharika are getting along again. You'll just stick to that thought. _Right_. It was nice, how they'd been getting along, compared to that week. Comfortable. They were friends again, like you and Sam. Except you don't really think that they consider each other to be like family, yet. Maybe later. Eventually. You hope.

"Right, so where do we start?" Sam asked. "We have to narrow the area down soon – two people have already died from lightning strikes, countless ones from car accidents in the rain and hail, and one from heatstroke. A blizzard's probably next. Maybe even a tornado," he joked. It wasn't really funny, but you managed a smile anyway. Who knew this witch's power? They could do anything.

_Oh, joy. _

"We'll take it in sections," Dean said. "And mark it off as we go. Everyone choose a direction."

"East!" you said immediately. It was the first thing that popped into your head.

Dean chose West, Sharika North, and Sam South. Then you split into pairs according to vertical and horizontal – you and Dean, and Sam and Sharika – because no way were any of you allowed to do this alone. Big Daddy Dean said so. And common sense. You and Dean flipped a coin – after some good natured squabbling – to see which direction you were going to check tomorrow. You'd alternate days, unless – _until_ you found a clue. Sam just said they'd check North first, and Sharika shrugged, nodded. Smiled up at him.

_Aw. Gooey. _

"West it is," you grunted, and shoved Dean's shoulder playfully, pretending to be miffed, then tilting your chin and raising your brows at the lovebirds, pointing them out to him. He grinned back and tucked away the quarter. Then he started groping under the bed for his jacket, Sharika and Sam shrugging into theirs as you laced up your boots. Though you weren't showing it, it was obvious that you were all feeling the pressure – there was too much area to cover, so little time before the witch flipped again and decided to play around. You had no time frame at all, no way to gauge when they'd perform some mojo, or how long it'd take to work. You'd just have to hope you found some sort of hint to their whereabouts, and soon.

The four of you left the motel and headed off in your chosen directions. You managed to coax Dean into buying sandwiches on the way.

000

"So, what are we supposed to ask people exactly? 'You know the weird weather we've been having lately? Well, we were just wondering if you have any suspects as to who's doing it?'?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, that sucks," you said, and rubbed the crease in between your eyebrows. At this rate you were going to get premature wrinkles. You sighed. "There has to be an easier way to do this."

"Yeah? Well, if you find one, be sure to tell me all about it."

"Right." You ate the last of your salad sandwich in silence, then started folding and unfolding the greaseproof paper, hands itching to _do _something but sit here on a public bench and chat trivialities about a _stupid fucking hunt when all you wanted to do was some stupid fucking and just plain fucking, and maybe some – no, no, no, no. No. Just no. Just stop. Just breathe. Just concentrate. Just skin, wet skin, shining with sunlight and his eyes, looking at you, looking – just NO. _Oh god. You are so, so screwed.

You know when you get like this you're going to end up doing something stupid. Something _really_ stupid that you're going to regret. It's like your mouth – when you can't stop yourself from saying things that you _know_ are going to get you in trouble, but the compulsion is just too strong. You don't even make a conscious effort, a decision. It happens, and you have to deal. Like you're possessed – except you know it's just you which makes it really fucking annoying. Anyways – yeah. This really feels like one of those times. You'll hold it off as long as you can, but you just _know_.

Dean looks at you when you sigh again. "You right there? You're starting to sound like the Big Bad Wolf, or something."

"Nice to know you remember your fairy tales, Dean."

"Red Riding Hood was totally hot. Plus she had that whole basket of goodies thing. You just know that was code for something else."

"Oh yeah. Red Riding Hood was a _total_ skank. You've been listening to _Ciara_ too much." For that matter, so have you. What's with everyone and goodies lately?

"Who?"

"Never mind."

"Right." Dean starts in on his second sandwich, picking up the first half and guiding it to his mouth, steak and onions peeking out the side, bread woefully bare of anything green or vaguely vegetable-like. Onions and whatever is in barbeque sauce _don't _count. You smirk as he gets it smeared next to his mouth. He was always doing that, he was such a messy eater. Like he'd never really been taught manners. Considering his dad, he probably hadn't. He'd only learnt enough to emulate an old man who didn't want the public to look at them askance, but who didn't really have time for those social graces; he had enough to know not to get it up his nose or down his neck, but not enough that he was a fully grown man himself, with a complete knowledge of such things. You simultaneously felt sad and mushy about that; it was one of the sweeter things about him. One of the little things you noticed that drew you in that much deeper. If he'd had a mother he would have learnt, when he was older. Four year olds were notorious for ignoring their parents about such things – manners, bed time, flushing the toilet – this you knew, your brother Darren having been a complete devil at that age.

"Dean," you say, and nudge him.

"Wha'?" he asks, mouth full.

"Sauce."

"Mmmph – 'll clenn i' lay-a." _Grunt, I'll clean it later;_ you automatically translated, rolling your eyes and trying not to see into his mouth, to the half chewed-food sticking to his tongue, teeth, palate, your hand coming up to rub an itch on the bridge of your nose. The seat bench was hard and firm against your shoulders, the planks digging lines in where they met. The wind was starting to pick up, sending shivers down your spine, skating along your exposed skin. You sent a glance at the sky – clear, blue, pretty. Nothing to worry about.

"_Right_," you said, over-enunciating, and then, quick as a striking cobra, you swiped the other half of his sandwich off his lap, taking a huge, gratuitous bite and groaning in pleasure. You hadn't had a steak sandwich in longer than you cared to remember.

"Hey!" You dodged the hand that grabbed for the rest of his food, grinning and laughing, ducking and weaving, chewing and gulping quickly, generally just goofing around with him. He was always stealing _your_ food – it was time for a little payback. You managed to get another two bites in before he snagged it back, pulling it right out of your hands and teeth, barbeque-sauce-drenched-onion dripping and plopping down on his lap and to the ground. "See what you did," he growled, shooting you a mock glare, and started burrowing around in his jacket pockets for a napkin. You just sneered at him, sitting back and savouring the flavours of meat and bread in your mouth before you had to swallow. After a minute of watching him wipe ineffectually at his jeans with his fingers, because he _couldn't_ find one, you rolled your eyes and fished out your own, stuffing it into his hands without really looking at him._ Was it just your imagination, or were those clouds gathering weirdly fast? _Even after he rubbed at the spots with the freshly spat on end of the soft paper, there were three brown stains on the blue denim, high up on his thigh, standing out as obvious as an elephant in a parking lot.

"Now our interrogations will be even _more_ fun – the interviewees thinking that one of the reporters – not saying any names, of course, Dean – are not in full control of their capacities. Like a _really_ old, _really_ unhealthy person."

"While the other reporter has the mental age of a five year old."

"No, just the appetite. Can I –"

"No."

"But –"

"It's mine. _I_ bought it, _I_ get to eat it." And he tore off another chunk, cheeks bulging around it, eyes half closed in relish. He looked unbearably smug, eyebrows raised in challenge, side of his mouth cheekily quirked, shoulders slanted your way. You huffed out a breath and crossed your arms over your chest, ripping your eyes away and deciding to ignore him and not to dwell on what you were missing.

Steak sandwich, and Dean._ Ah, damnit._ You really must love him if you find the sight of him massacring a food product irresistible. If that hadn't already been completely established, without a single doubt – which actually happened to be really fucking annoying and worrying and a _little_ scary. You aren't supposed to be in irrevocable, unrequited love with another hunter by the age of twenty three. What would he do if you threw _that_ up on him? The love thing? Surely he wouldn't stick around to play Doctor Phil like the last time you'd flung your emotions at him. His eyes'd probably go freakishly ginormous, and then he'd find the quickest escape route.

Lynching those thoughts from your mind, you tipped your head back, and started wondering how you were really going to work this hunt. Sure, it was great to be optimistic, or whatever, but as you said – this plan was crap. It wouldn't work at all. It'd take you at _least_ two weeks to check out the whole town, and even then it'd be stupid to think you'd gotten anywhere. People probably hadn't noticed the witch going around; it's not likely they'd be waving sticks of incense and chanting spells and dancing naked in the street. So this whole thing was useless. You'd have to search for some kind of ritual to pin down a witch, or find some sort of talisman that worked sort of like the EMF, if any such thing existed. And if it was anywhere in range. _And_ if you could get your hands on it. All extremely unlikely, so the boys'd probably try some DIY magic, and you all knew how reliable _that _was. A.k.a., _not at all._

Dean finished his lunch and stood, wiping his body free of crumbs with swift, efficient actions. Then he looked down at you, saying, "Back to work I guess," on a sigh, running long fingers through his hair. It was already messed up from the forceful tugging of the breeze, and you felt a frisson of unease slither through your shoulders and up to your neck, for no reason you could determine but the caution in his eyes. Dark strands fell into the hazel green orbs, then were whipped back again, clouds – purple and black and grey and green bruises on the sky – are starting to form a backdrop behind him, perfect for any kind of big announcement, any kind of heavy atmosphere or tension. Such a contrast to the last time you'd looked, bare minutes ago. You feel as though you should say something meaningful.

"Oh, goodie," you manage, "Work." And he holds out a hand, rolling his eyes. You take it, and he pulls you up, trying not to think of later, or before, but now. His hand was warm around yours, strong. And then he let go.

000

The blizzard Sam had sarcastically predicted started up around three o'clock. Dean called his brother, told him to grab supplies and to meet back up at the motel. The two of you rushed to the Impala, shoulders hunching as wind whipped up and blew dirt into your eyes, ears, mouth, nose. Every possible orifice on display.

You waited in line at the_ 7-11_ with other frantic shoppers, checking your watch, the street, the sky, eyes busy and unable to hold still. The wind was stronger, temperature dropping, and it reminded you far too much of that movie _The Day After Tomorrow_ for any kind of comfort. _God._ _When you find this witch_ – and then Dean's at the register and you dump everything in your arms – candy, chips, drinks, jerky, muesli bars – onto the counter, the clerk just as frenetic, until Dean loses his patience and tosses him a fifty dollar note, hustling you back to the car, cheap food spilling onto the seat next to you as he peels out.

A _blizzard_, for fuck's sake. You weren't equipped for a fucking _blizzard. _

"Hey, we'll just ration, okay? Dad taught me and Sam how to do that, we'll be fine." _Dean_ was trying to comfort you. _Dean. _You were more scared than you'd been before, now, fingers clenching on your thighs in an anxious cadences, trying to stop the instinctual shaking. Cold you weren't so good with. Cold, and starvation, and something you couldn't even _hunt_ doing that – and oh, god. You're really not thinking about it. You aren't. You're fine. Everything's going to be just fine.

Oh god, you have to stop _thinking._ You need a distraction.

_Dean. _

"Hey, jerk face," you snapped. "Eyes on the road."

"Your wish is my command, Your Majesty."

"Dickwad."

"Bitch."

"Pansy." The radio was starting to faze you, music crawling in and out of your consciousness. _…willing to sacrifice our love… world behind… fortune in feelings… _The static almost laughs. Oh god. _Cold As Ice, _by ForeignerSomeone _really _hates you. Like, someone up there. What you must have done to deserve this, you don't know, but Karma was kicking your ass to the white-sprinkled curb, and you weren't enjoying it one itty bit.

"Loser."

"Asshat."

"Asshat?"

"Ha! I win!"

"Shut up, you do not! What the hell is an asshat?"

"If you don't know I am not going to tell you."

"Man, I hate that line. It's right up there with 'do I look fat in this?', and 'what are you thinking?' What's a guy supposed to be thinking about straight after getting sucked off?"

In spite of yourself you have to laugh. "You're asking _me?_ How the hell should I know what to say after getting blown? I've never actually been on the receiving end, you know, and if you don't find the answer yourself it won't mean anything." And now you feel very self-satisfied. You wonder how many other such irritating sayings you can recall before you get to the motel. Snow flakes are starting to stick to the windows.

"That's another one. Where do women get these? Is there a magazine detailing how to stump guys completely, like a ten step course or something?"

"If I told you I'd have to kill you."

"Bond. James Bond."

"You wish. Frog."

"That again? I do not look like a frog."

"Well, you're certainly no Prince Charming, either. Want to be the Princess? I gladly relinquish my title."

"Think it'd suit me?"

"You're as pretty as any girl."

"If we're going by looks you're definitely the evil stepmother."

"There is no evil stepmother in _the Princess and the Frog_, Dean."

"Is there a hag?"

"You're so sweet. I can totally see why you get the guy in the end."

"What can I say? Happy endings and me, we're bosom buddies."

And you were there. The two of you grabbed the food, plastic crinkling in your arms and under them, piling high, Dean locking the Impala and closing the door with his foot, hopping and sliding, almost falling over with the thin coating of ice already on the tarmac, until you steadied him with an elbow and the two of you ran towards the room, trying to keep upright and not drop anything. It was so cold your teeth were chattering – it had only been snowing for fifteen minutes or so, and there were already slushy grey clumps of it forming in the gutters. It was supernatural, alright. It had been _sunny _this morning, for chrissakes. It had been sunny _this afternoon. _

You hate the cold.

Shuffling the produce you manage to unlock the door, crashing into the room and slamming it shut behind you, throwing everything on one of the beds and starting to scurry about the room. God, you're in a dilapidated motel room during a _blizzard. _A _blizzard_ for fuck's sake. You're going to freeze to death.

"Hey!" Dean snapped at you, bringing you back to the present. You blinked yourself out of drugged fear and blankness, starting and managing to look at him and fake annoyance. Ah yes, fake annoyance. Always important. "Start plugging up cracks; I'll call Sammy, alright?"

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and started rifling through the boys' dirty laundry for socks to plug the gaps in the window and the walls and the floorboards and – you're going to _die. _No, everything will be fine. You have the other four, and body heat, and food, and just stop thinking about Jake Gyllenhaal, mmkay? Or at least, not him in _that_ movie. Maybe him in _Brokeback Mountain. _That was fun, right? Although also cold. It's not the end of the world; it's just some stupid, idiotic person fooling around with things out of their true command. And you are _going_ to deal with them. And this. There is no need to be this worked up. It's just like any other hunt, any other complication on the road to getting the job done. You wouldn't be shaking like this if someone got a concussion, or anything, right? This is just like that.

You've been hurrying around the room while thinking, stuffing socks and boxers into holes as you went, and when you hear Dean finally connect, you sigh with relief, the same emotion evident in his whole body and his voice, when you turn to look over your shoulder. "Sam? Sam. Thank god. Where are you? Yeah, we're back here, just waiting for you. No, number two. Yeah. Yeah. You two alright? Yeah, 'course we are. Do you need us to pick you up? Okay. Yeah. Hurry back." He snapped his mobile shut, saying to you simply, "They're not far; they managed to pick up some supplies before most of the panic struck, and they'll be here soon. Lauren? Need help?"

"Nah, I'm all done now, no thanks to you, Mr Bond."

He smiled and shook his head, sitting down on the mattress and running a hand through all the sugary, teeth-rotting, cardiac-arrest-inducing foods spread across the coverlet. "This is going to be fun. Days trapped inside with nothing to do but get on each other's nerves. We're going to go stir crazy."

"You already _are _stir crazy." You sat next to him, then flopped back on the pillows, head bouncing on the hard mattress, folding arms under your head so you were at the right angle to meet his questioning eyes. You bit your lip, considering, then said, "I'm not really happy about this." It seemed that now you'd done it once it was a lot easier to keep doing it. Admitting your weaknesses to Dean. You'd worry about it later. There were other things to worry about now.

"I guessed. Bad experience?"

"Good imagination."

"That'll just about do it." He sighed and lay back, tucking his chin down so he could still see you, scratching a hand idly on the golden sliver of skin showing above his jeans. If your mouth wasn't already dry from worry, it would have been at that. "We don't even know how long this is going to last," he said, and you got that he was trying to put you at ease again, just being a tad more subtle about it this time. "They had rain that was just about monsoon conditions about three days before we got here, and that cleared up real quick. This could be the same."

"Operative word being could. Did they say where they were?"

"Just a couple of blocks away. They move pretty fast."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."  
You covered your eyes with your forearm, let out a huge sigh. Shifted. Stilled. Then shifted again. "I think I'm sitting on a chocolate bar," you said eventually.

"That's yours then."

"I'm cut."

"Yeah, yeah, you'll live."

And then the door was opening, Sam and Sharika piling into the room, arms laden down with plastic bags filled with the same calibre of food on the bed, and, now, after the two of you had hurled yourselves on there, the floor. The door opening let in a whole flurry of snow – it sat, already melting on the wood, while they banged the door shut again.

"Hey," you said, concealing the very real dread you'd had for them and their safety as they shook white flecks off the shoulders of their jackets, shuddering and moving deeper into the room, away from the outside. "Tell me you got something that doesn't have cheese, caffeine, or the word super in it; make my day."

"Wait, aren't those the staples of our entire diet?" Sam said, and smiled at you, mussing his hair with his fingers, shaking out even more of the weather clinging to him. When he stepped up to plonk his bags on Dean's feet you saw with sudden clarity the snowflakes caught on his eyelashes, and blinked.

"You're forgetting the fat, sugar and booze, Sam. You must never forget the fat, sugar and booze," you said, and he held up a bottle of whiskey.

"Got it."

000

The room was dark, lit only by the TV's fuzzed out images, faded blues and oranges meandering, shaping every soft angle. You were warm, melted pleasantly on the inside by your good friend JD and the lethargy of not having done anything but relax for the last five or six hours. Time bled when you had no real way of mapping it, and no inclination to.

At the start the four of you had tried to research; but the internet connection was shot, John's journal had already been gone over countless times with no results, and the cold from outside was detrimental to any attempts to get to the car. Wind was still whistling in through miniscule cracks in the door, nipping at your bare skin. The room was bearable, but you wouldn't streak. Snow covered half the window pane you could see reflected in the half light; more was still falling, fast and thick. You'd been forced to take it easy thanks to the conditions; and now you and Dean were just this side of drunk, Sharika and Sam completely smashed. Sure, you'd think Sam could pack it away with a body like that, but no. And Sharika? Just looking at her you could tell she was a lightweight.

You groaned, stretching luxuriously and wondering how long this could last. It was different, to say the least. The four of you just hanging out, nothing to do but put off the worry, put off everything and hang out, try and watch the television and not get on each other's nerves too extremely. Which was surprisingly easy, considering the way the four of you interacted on a daily basis. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the Research Team was dead asleep, arms and legs and torsos intertwined on the other bed where they'd fallen, giggling like teenage girls at a slumber party over the dolphin documentary. Yeah, so they'd been mating, and it was pretty damn twisty and holy-crap-I-didn't-know-they-could-_do_-that; but did that mean they had to be so immature about it? And yes, okay, so they were intoxicated and probably on sugar highs, but _still_ – whatever. You're over it. At least there weren't anymore high-pitched noises coming from over there anymore.

"Hey," you said, jostling Dean's side with your elbow. He was sprawled on the bed next to you, back and shoulders propped on the wall, bag of Doritos held in between his thighs. "Change the channel." It was some infomercial about tofu. Snore.

He grunted and picked the remote up from the bedside table, pressed a button and the screen flicked immediately to a jumping picture of Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze and –

"Pottery porn!" you exclaimed, bolting upright and grinning wide. Sam snorted from the opposite bed, and twitched, shifting onto his side. Sharika, spooned against his chest, squirmed, pushing her face back into the crook of his neck. Ah, young, inebriated love. Cutest thing ever. Of course, they probably wouldn't _remember_ anything in the morning which was _totally_ fucking unfair, and you _wish_ they'd just hurry up and _get it together_ and have a _trillion_ babies and –

"Pottery porn?"

"Oh yeah." You grabbed a handful of corn chips out of the packet, teeth snagging one out of the bunch and tongue guiding it past your lips. "It's the new biggest thing," you continued around the mouthful, other hand coming up to cover, so you didn't sprinkle half-chewed yellow bits onto the blankets. "I hear they're even thinking of adding it to the food pyramid." On screen Patrick slid his clay covered hands up Demi's biceps, leaving wide streaks of brown. The soft, soulful music clung to your brain, making you sway; your eyes literally shut part way with pleasure at the tingles going down your spine. This song was like… beyond romantic. _Are you still mine? I need your love. _Even if the scene was glorified, the spontaneity, the slow, smooth cadence of the –

"Lauren, this movie was made in like… the nineteen nineties. And abandoned there, _along with_ the food pyramid." At this crude, and insensitive comment, totally lacking in any appreciation of Mr Swayze's romantic potential as a you're-not-quite-sure-what-it-is-_exactly_-but-he's-attractive-anyway fantasy option, you flick a glance Dean's way. He's got his eyebrows crinkled incredulously at the screen, his mouth pulled in on one corner, almost-maybe in disgust. He's holding the remote in his hand, on his lap, but not making any move to use it. You take this as a positive sign, only just managing to stop yourself from humming along. _I'll be coming home, wait for me. Oh, my love. My darlin'. I hunger. Hunger for your touch. _

"And how exactly do you know that, Dean?" you asked, snapping yourself out of your stupor, a quick shake of the head to clear the images out of your brain. _Dean, hands gliding up your skin, mouth following, leaving cupid bow bruises on your flesh. Marking you as his. Dean, licking into your mouth, tongue curling sweet and easy around your own. Tasting you. Dean, hot under your fingers, pulse beating hard against your palm. Teeth grazing against the ridges of his trachea, his Adam's apple bobbing on a swallow. Dean – _uh, yeah. Images, gone. Totally. Yep. Check.

"Everyone knows that," he said, rolling his eyes and digging into the colourful plastic bag again, bringing out a couple of chips to stuff in his mouth. You could hear the crunching sounds, even leaning forwards and angled away, nearly half way down the bed. His posture was effortless and comfortable, shoulders slumped slightly, mouth coiled at the right side. His eyes, black in the darkness were curved at the screen in amusement, and your eyes flicked back. The characters were falling onto the bed, still grasping at each other. You averted your eyes, and libido.

"I didn't know that," you offered, and gulped. He was licking his lips and fingers free of crumbs and just – just _Jesus. _Jesus. It wasn't fair.

"Obviously, because you're a complete social outcast."

"Oh, and you're Mr Popular?" you bit back, and he tossed you a grin.

"I have my moments."

"You're unbelievable. Did you know _that?_"

"That's what all my women say."

"Oh, shut up," you scoffed, and snagged the bag out of his lap, plonking it into your own to feed another appetite. You weren't going to be able to sleep at all tonight, a combination of sugar and adrenaline. But then, you probably had days with nothing to do _but _sleep, so that was no biggie.

"Want a free demo?"

"Did I mention the 'oh, shut up'?" you said, without looking. You didn't want to see that smearing smug grin, the light behind those hazel green eyes. Didn't want temptation beckoning you even louder, with air horns in place of bull frogs. The low curve of his body, the cradle of his hips. Limbs lounging and trailing up to tangle in your hair and scrape down your back. No, _no._

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You know you love me."

"Would you mind shutting up so I can watch the damn film?" you said, affecting boredom, heart in your throat from that millisecond of fear. The one that hit before you heard the indifference, the casual intonation. He hadn't _meant_ it. He didn't _know._

"You want to watch this outdated, overrated, overplayed, chick-flick, feel-good, reverse-necrophilia-centric excuse for a film?"

"I thought that had already been established."

"Oh good. Me too."

000

You woke up with sun spiking your eyes, lolling on the floor, hands tucked into your stomach. There was half a blanket trapped under you, and about three thousand corn chip shards. The first thing you noticed was the fact that it was warm.

You sat up immediately, pulling on the side of the mattress. Pillow creases and hair pointing up in a dozen different directions did nothing to detract from the sweet pout of a pink mouth, or the soft look in hazel green eyes. Even if there was sleep stuck in the corner of his right one. "Hey," he said, voice deep and sleep-rough, and you watched the slow, quietly content curlicue of his mouth, heart beating steady and loud in your ears.

"Hey," you whispered back, and he winked at you.

"Told you so."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." But you were smiling back, running a hand across your cheek to sweep back some hair, to cover the smooth flush starting to spread. It was _really_ warm in here.

"It's not like I'd ever let anything bad happen to you," he said, obviously still half asleep, and your heart thudded hard once, and then somersaulted, dropping down to hug your goofy, fluttering stomach. Your tongue felt thick and impossibly heavy in your mouth; all you could do was look straight back at him, and try to stop your entire body from liquefying.

And then a scream shattered the syrupy atmosphere, followed by a loud thump and two simultaneous, noisy, painful groans, and a single, _"Oh my god,_ _Sam! Are you okay?!_"

Dean grinned, chuckling – and you grinned back.

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AN: Hi everybody! Hi Doctor Nick! Heh. You're in for a surprise next week. But more on that later; this chapter was me trying to write happy-ish. Sorry if it came out weirdly. Reviews are love, of course. And you must remember I typed this on a med high, and Lauren is drunk, and tired through most of this chapter!! So don't hate me!!

I want to thank everyone for your comments last week; lol, which, in actual fact were unneeded, because I already had a concrete plan for the DeanLauren stuff. Not that you guys knew, so sorry, but yes. Thanks, I love knowing that you guys care and like to have an input. MWAH.

_Promo: _… WAIT!!! STOP EVERYTHING!! I'm not telling you bitches anything! Mostly because I'm just too lazy… Oh alright, because I'm such a sweet person:

"Dean, I want you. Right now. Inside me, _right now_."

See you on Sunday!!


	37. You Can't Take Back What You've Taken

_WARNING: This chapter is a little jumpy, to say the least: if you get lost you should follow these times in order: _

_Tuesday, 10:54am, Tuesday, 10:57am, __Tuesday, 11:01am, __Tuesday, 2:03pm, __Tuesday, 8:13pm, T__uesday, 8:21:46pm, Tuesday, 8:21:48pm, Tuesday, 8:25pm, Tuesday, 8:43:18pm, Tuesday, 8:43:34pm_

_My apologies ahead of time for the crappiness. _

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37. You Can't Take Back What You've Taken Away

_Freedom in general may be defined as the absence of obstacles to the realisation of desires._

_--Bertrand Russell_

_Tuesday, 8:21:46pm_

Holy hell. There was a flush of desire staining those chiselled cheekbones, with their tiny freckles that were like some sort of obscene turn on – my own particular fetish, probably – and his mouth was open and slick with saliva – _our saliva. _Eyelashes, a dark curve on those cheekbones fluttered, and sprung open, hazel green eyes looking up at me, heat in them, hotter than sin, hotter than the hinges to hell. Higher than heaven.

_Fuck_ going slow, I thought, as he smiled, unmoving between my palms and legs, bit his bottom lip. _I_ wanted to bite his bottom lip.

I swooped down again, feeling his tension all around me, through me, an echo sent straight to my bones as my tongue flicked into his mouth, grazed against his teeth in an effort to get _more – _I wanted _everything_ – and he groaned as it made contact with the roof of his mouth, over-shivery-sensitive, and I drew his initials there, then mine, sloppy and uncoordinated – but so _good_._ Oh god, oh god._ All that slick heat, all that – all that – and a shudder ran through him, and I knew I'd see fingerprint bruises on my ass if I ever got the inclination to check it out in a mirror. I bit his lip – _finally – _sharp white teeth sinking into that pink, swollen flesh – oh fuck _yes_ – and then I was under him, lumpy motel mattress under _me_, and he was bucking against me, holding himself above me on his elbows, hips slotting together perfect, puzzle pieces, puzzle complete and perfect, and I rolled upwards to meet the next thrust, all the heat from the last days, heat that I'd barely lost in those cold showers, trembling back over me, waves and waves _and waves _–

000

_Tuesday, 10:54am_

Sam waves at me as I get closer, other hand curved around a Styrofoam cup of coffee, eyes half closed against the harsh sun. "Hey," I greeted once I got closer, and he smiled. "What's the official story?"

"Freak occurrence; scientists are still trying to come up with a plausible explanation. Sharika's in there now, interviewing one of them. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know. Thought I'd come to see what my old buddy Sam was up to," I said, and grinned wide, punched him playfully in the shoulder.

"Dean pissed you off again, didn't he?"

"Oh yeah." He took a sip of his coffee, trying to hide his smile, but I still saw it in the crinkling around his eyes, a twitch of his mouth from the side. He wouldn't be smiling if Dean called _him_ a bimbo with a maximum IQ of three and a half, his only defining feature being his bust line, would he? Okay, so he'd just said it so the chauvinistic pig of a scientist we'd been trying to pry open would be on his side, whatever, but it had still been annoying, and the wheezy laugh the squat fat man had intertwined with Dean's short dusky one had made me want to kick every man I came into contact with in their jewels. "He'll be fine. Probably." I hoped that scientist guy ate him.

"He always is." Sam glanced at me, then held out his hand – the one with the coffee in it. "Want?" he asked, casual, conscientious. It was just another sign that we were on each other's good side again – thank fucking god. Having a Sasquatch angry at me for an insurmountable amount of time has never been on my to-do list. Especially Sammy – Sammy plays the bitch role better than any guy I have ever met. And that's saying a lot, considering how many people I've known, a vast majority of them dickheads. Plus, you know, there's the fact that I love him, which may count in a small way towards how much his being prissy and pissy at me affects everyday life.

"That milky crap you call caffeine? I'll pass," I said, an old record between us, and swiped a hand across my forehead. The sun was shining fit to burst, so hot I was only wearing a tank and cut off pair of jeans that substituted as shorts. Even Sam was only in two layers for once, one t-shirt in place of his usual three, his most worn down denims. And still I was sweating, upper lip, the back of my neck, between my shoulder blades and breasts. The only evidence of last's night frozen tantrum were the huge dirty puddles of melted snow in the gutters, in dips of the sidewalk.

000

_Tuesday, 8:25pm_

– running his hands up the dips in my waist, lips curving on my shoulder, his grin tattooed against my overheated flesh. Fingers clenched tight on his back linger, caught on his arms, the sinews and muscles, the lines of bones and sweep of skin, and I swallow, mouth dry –

000

_Tuesday, 10:57am_

"Thanks, _really_," I said, and handed Sam his cup back, tongue twisting in my mouth at the taste of his drink. He snorted, and took an overly loud gulp. I rolled my eyes. My mouth had been completely dehydrated, so I'd given in and had a sip, which I now regretted. Sure, it had soothed my throat somewhat, but now my tastebuds were revolting against me, and my cruel treatment of them. So not worth it.

The door in front of us opened and Sharika walked out, smiling up at a sturdy looking man with auburn hair and a nose sharp enough to cut cheese with. Chunky build, legs a little out of proportion with his long torso. Still kinda cute though, if you went for the slightly nerdy, chubby-cuddly type. It was a shame I was only attracted to the smokin' hot fuckwits; I should really branch out. "Hey, Shar," I greeted her, and gave her companion an open smile, all smooth and gleaming and _trust-me, like-me, I'm-easy_. He smiled back, but kept his body angled towards Sharika, head tilted near, weight on the foot closest to her, subtly inside her personal space. I bit my tongue to hold back the giggle, and the happy smile – it was high time guys started hitting on Sharika, and she reciprocated, or at least accepted it, again – and then I happened to shoot a look at Sam. His eyes were narrow slits – then I blinked and he was all charming sweetness again. Of course, I had to bite my tongue even harder when I noticed _that_. Adorable. Completely adorable. Sammy's _jealous._ "I'm Sandy," I introduced myself, using the first name that popped into my head, and holding out my hand for him to shake. His grip was warm and dry, firm, three quick pumps and he let go.

"Nice to meet you, Sandy. I'm Greg," he said, nodded. His voice was deep and honey-dark, words clipped off at the ends. It sounded faintly accented – something European, I think. Maybe Polish. Whatever, I approved. Sharika should fuck him. Not that she ever would for a variety of reasons, the most prominent being the tense skyscraper of a young man to my left. Damn Winchesters. I wondered how many women's libidos they'd killed in the past – that is, all of the women's libido except for the part that wanted to attack _them._ If that makes sense. I'm kind of hot and bothered right now – and also? My libido is in desperate need of being fed. The instinct to fornicate has been clawing to get out of me for about, say – five months now? Yeah. I'm desperate. But I'm managing – I haven't slammed Dean into walls and ravished him as yet, and nor do I intend to any time soon. I can control myself. I am strong. I am so, _so_ screwed.

"Michael," Sam provided when Greg looked at him inquiringly. He took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee before saying, "Not to be rude or anything, George –"

"Greg."

"Right." I couldn't help the tiny, soundless shake of laughter that vibrated up from my belly at Sam's shrugged indifference. I could tell immediately he'd called Greg the wrong name on purpose; it was a way to establish his dominance in the scenario, to make the other man feel inferior. Not that it was working, the guy was just raising his eyebrows in a version of Dean's look – also known by me as '_what-the-fuckity McFuck fuck?'_. God, it was fun to watch. _Really_ fun to watch, appealing to the darker, almost sadistic side of my human nature. Testosterone poisoning always has been hilarious to the fairer sex, I think. Or maybe my amusement was just stemming from the tense set of Sam's shoulders, the indignant flare of his nostrils – the way he couldn't completely hide how possessive he was feeling. Ha, _funny_. "Not to be rude or anything, _Greg_, but we have to get back to work now. We've got other appointments to keep."

"Funny, Sharika told me she had the rest of the afternoon off."

000

_Tuesday, 8:43:18pm_

"I said, _take_ _it_ _off_. Need a demonstration, dumbass?" and before he could register exactly, my shirt was on the floor, and my bra was following, the sudden cold immediately eliciting that embarrassing bodily reaction, pebbling flesh. I cupped my breasts in my hands, palming the undersides, nipples taut and rose pink, peeking over my fingers, and as he reached out to touch, said, "Nuh, uh, uh," shaking my head and smirking down at him, tsk-ing as though he were a disobedient child. "Not until you lose the excess, assh–" and then his lips and tongue were on my right nipple, and I couldn't exactly be blamed for losing my train of thought.

000

_Tuesday, 11:01am_

I _liked _this guy.

He was simultaneously able to flirt heavily – and very _cutely_ I must add _(he complimented her smile, by god – now __I__ want someone to say I have the sweetest smile they have ever seen…damnit)_ – with Sharika, and keep up a evil-eye staring competition with Sam, who was looking more and more strung out by the second. He had a sharp sense of humour, was intelligent, and witty. And was a total darling, I was coming to suspect. Yes, I totally approved. I'll suggest the idea of procreation to her as soon as I get her alone – if she does it – _yeah, unlikely_ – she'll then, of course, have to tell me, her steadfast, very best friend in the whole wide world, all about it. Thus I can live vicariously. Always a fun alternative to actually getting any, even if it's nowhere near as satisfying.

We had by this time gravitated towards the Impala, and were waiting for Dean to get his ass back here and away from that fucking _asshole _of a climatologist-scientist-type-person, whatever, while Greg tried to get Sharika – who wasn't completely reluctant – to go out to lunch with him, and Sam tried to get Sharika – who wasn't reluctant about _that_, either – to stay. Both of them marginally subtly, so there was a whole lot of backing and forth-ing and to-ing and thro-ing and I was getting a little jealous myself, what with the two attractive guys practically crawling all over themselves to take Shar out, or whatever it was, in Sammy's case. Damn, I wish there were guys fighting over me. Or, you know, just _one_ fighting _with_ me, even – I'd even settle for it being over the merits of Batman versus Spiderman again. I mean, _come on_ Dean, of course Batman is way cooler, and just better, because _duh_ – he doesn't even have radioactive spider powers and he's a superhero. He's just a normal guy – _okay, yes, in vinyl and stuff, so what? _– who is extremely cool and buff and fighting for what's right and – wait, how the hell did I get onto Batman from thinking about Sharika and dating and lunch?

And, really – I have got to stop thinking in sexual innuendos. Onto Batman… heh.

_So_ not helping right now.

I tried focusing on the dialogue flying around me, instead of thoughts of Dean in vinyl – or just, _god_, really, _really_ tight pants…yeah, _focus!_ – and came back to earth just in time to see a car speed by next to us, sending a huge puddle of melted snow spray up and onto Greg with a huge _sploosh_ sound. It was like Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason all over again, except Greg wasn't wearing a dress and wasn't that short. Or blonde. Or even a woman. And – yeah, he was the only one who got wet at all, as he was the closest to the road. Well, okay, I got a couple of droplets on my face, but that doesn't really hold weight compared to the whole right side of Greg's body being soaked in dirty water, does it? And so therefore does not require mentioning.

Sam choked on the coffee in his mouth, having to beat at his chest with his fist to start breathing again – only to bust into laughter when he got his breath back. Me? I made an undignified snorting sound that I will forever onwards deny, trying to keep my unholy glee back. Even Sharika giggled, although she was still attempting – ineffectually, might I add – to dry Greg, only really managing to flutter around him helplessly and offer a handkerchief. The poor, drenched man was standing, his eyes as round as quarters and approximately the size of dinner plates, arms held out to his sides, frozen, completely stunned, and still. A rosy blush started to bloom along his cheekbones.

Behind him the sky started to darken, clouds gathering at an accelerated rate, like, you know those documentaries where they record the sky and then play it on a really high speed to show time passing, or whatever? Yeah, that's what it was like, all these fat, fluffy white clouds twining and weaving together in the porcelain blue sky, painting themselves a grey bordering on black as I watched in wide-eyed, open-mouthed silence. It was as dark as twilight in about – what? Thirty seconds? Yeah.

I dropped my eyes back down to the dripping man in front of me, his auburn hair sticking to his forehead, his brown eyes flicking to each of us, his body gone tense and unsure, biting the inner lining of my lip as Sam and Sharika shared an affirming look with me and each other, and then shifted to business mode with winking smiles.

All I can say is: well, _holy shit._

I think we found our witch.

000

_Tuesday, 2:03pm_

I reclined against the bed, tipping my head back on my shoulders until it was propped on the mattress, butt and feet planted firmly on the scuffed wooden boards of the motel room, and _groaned_. Oh, don't take this lightly – it wasn't a _man-I-could-really-go-for-some-pizza-right-now_ kind of groan, or even a _my-head-kind-of-hurts_ groan. It was a full blown, _my-brain-is-melted_ one, and it was warranted, damnit. Piles of books on witches, witchcraft, and all such other fun topics lay scattered around and on top of me, open to pages, bookmarked in others, sticky notes poking up from thick leather covers like fluoro pink porcupine needles from most.

The only thing that is stopping me from running screaming out of here with severe boredom-induced psychosis was the fact that there were four other people in the room in the same state I was – and one of them had the combined ill-will of the other three and yours truly battering down upon them, because it was essentially for their benefit. Or, alternatively, their fucking fault.

Yeah, we'd bought Greg back to the motel. It had taken a delicate utilisation of a combination of very subtle and hunter-like tactics – in other words, sexual innuendo and playing other people like fiddles. I recall particularly my own use of the line 'we just _have_ to get you out of those wet clothes' – cue the naughty thoughts – Sharika's sweet smiles, and all three of ours' excuse of asking him some more questions on the topic of the strange weather. The last one being a mixture of the truth, and using the poor guy's own scientist-type ego against him, as he had _come so highly recommended to us, so we'd really like the opportunity…_ blah, blah, etcetera, ass-kiss, ego-pump, blah, blah, _blah_. Once Dean had come back and had consented to drive us – it had taken _a lot_ of meaningful glares, let me tell you – I'd told him the story with a series of hand signals that stayed on my lap, thus clueing him in on the situation. When we'd arrived back at the motel we'd pretty much pounced on the poor guy, blocking him into the room, and interrogating him. There were waved guns included, on Sam and Dean's part – Dean because he didn't really know much about how harmless and gooey-centred Greg was, Sam because he just really didn't like the guy. And _then_ it turned out it wasn't really his fault; he didn't have any control of his power, it just manifested without him knowing anything about it. Apparently the weather was affected by his emotions – so getting scungy street water splashed all over him in front of a pretty girl he was trying to chat up equals humiliation, equals weather fucking him – and everyone else in the immediate vicinity – over.

We'd spent the whole afternoon so far figuring out ways to help him out with his powers. We'd gone to the library after exhausting the stack of books that lived in the trunk of the Impala, and had even scoured the tiny local occult bookstore in town. It was slow going, to say the very least. And have I mentioned the fact that my brain is melted? Yeah. Because it really, really is. And not in a good way, like when Dean's naked and I can see him, or Dean's naked and I can see him. Yeah… thoughts, wayward and repeating. Bad sign. _Bad,_ bad sign.

Must suffocate them.

"Anyone found anything that makes them want to shout 'eureka' and streak down the road yet?" I asked, running a hand through my hair and massaging the back of my scalp to ease some of the tension building there. If I had to research much longer I might just do that to pass some time. That is – run places naked and shout weird words. _Might_ being the operative word, as it all depends on the variable of Dean coming with me… oh damnit, _puns!_ I have a mind that is _emancipated_ from the gutter, do you hear me? I do not ha-

"Are you alluding to Archimedes?" Greg asked with an interested tilt of his eyebrows and a twinkle in his almond-shaped brown eyes, interrupting my internal dialogue. I could have kissed him in relief and gratitude.

Sometimes my non-verbal rants worry me.

"Perhaps…" I said, and managed a smile. I stretched my legs and arms out in front of me, trying to appease the ache in the muscles from staying still and hunched over for so long. "Why, do you know any one else who makes a habit of doing so?"

"Only everyone in the advanced mathematics and science courses at the University of Nebraska after exams."

Sharika and I laughed; Dean raised his eyebrows and grinned at Sam. "You been holding out on me, Sammy?" he asked, relaxing back on the bed I was leaning on, one hand holding the thick book in his lap, the other tapping on his thigh with repressed energy. He was just as restless as I was – the other three? I think they actually _enjoyed _work like this. Which is just so, _so_ wrong. But makes a twisted kind of sense when you consider the facts and their personalities and – okay, basically the three of them were just dorky nerds. Loveable dorky nerds, but dorky nerds nonetheless.

"Dean, I didn't do any advanced maths or science courses, or go to the University of Nebraska, so no, I have not been holding out on you," Sam replied, rolling his eyes and sticking his pencil behind his ear. He rubbed his temples and forehead, sitting back on the chair with a sigh, spreading his legs wider and rolling his shoulders. To his left Sharika sat on the other bed with Greg, Shar cross-legged at the foot, our new – victim? Hunt? God knows anymore – at the head. The room looked just a _tad_ packed, what with all five of us, and two extra-extra-_extra_ large doses of testosterone crowding into it. I wondered if Sharika even noticed the boys fighting over her, or if she just thought Sam was in a bad mood, and Greg was a really nice guy.

You'd think she'd have realised – but let me let you in on a little secret… compared to Shar my powers of self-denial are as fledgling chickens to a bald eagle. Tiny, fluffy and pathetic. Yellow bellied, too. In other words – hers just _swamped _mine in a whole heap of enviable ways.

"Back to the _point_," I said, and pushed the book on my lap onto the floor, giving it a look of keen disgust, "_Has_ anyone found anything good yet?" We were looking for a clarification of what was happening to Greg – sure, he was a witch now, but how did it _happen_ exactly, and how could we neutralise or help him to control it?

Everyone gave muttering sounds that sounded vaguely negative and I groaned again, contemplated beating myself to death with one of the leather-bound texts – at least that way I'd go quickly instead of drawing it out by reading myself into a coma. Seriously – how, just _how_ can people read this much long-winded, bewildering, overly-uselessly-articulate babble without wanting to burn something? Preferably the offending volumes? Some of them were even in Latin, other bits in Sanskrit for fuck's sake – which meant as well as reading I had to translate it, and _then_ it usually turned out completely useless anyways, making the whole process into something mind-bogglingly frustrating.

I just wanted to get _out_ of here. My bloody _skin_ was itching, I was so twitchy. I am just not built to stay in enclosed spaces for extended lengths of time. It makes me feel like the walls are closing in. I mean, I can live in the Impala because it's moving, and I can see that. I can sleep in small, crappy motel rooms because I need to and I know I'll be free in the morning. But imposing tiny areas on myself just for the heck of it, to read books that were just _no fucking help at all_ – I _have_ to get _out_ of here. Or just _stop reading these fucking –_

"There are some books back at my place that might help," Greg suddenly spoke up, and everyone else turned to stare at him, including myself. Incredulity, annoyance and mild shock abounded.

"And when were you going to tell us this?" Sam asked in his quiet voice. Oh – _scary._ He was leaning towards the witch, blue-green eyes trained and sharp and pointed, body tense with pent-up aggression. It takes a lot to get Sammy all deadly silent and still; usually he's the height of sweet and affable – you know, at least to the public – but when he did get like this, even I knew to duck for cover.

Greg, however, just shrugged. "I've _kind_ _of_ been trying to process all this," he said, staring straight back at Sam, not even a hint of fear in his body language. Have I mentioned I _liked_ him? Yeah. "Excuse me for forgetting something."

"Look, it's not Greg's fault. And it's not a big deal – we can just go pick them up and bring them back here," Sharika said, ever the peacemaker.

"No!" Dean and I shouted in unison. This time it was us every eye turned on, the stunned silence filling my ears in. "Uh," Dean continued, and I pulled my lips into my mouth to chew on, not meeting anyone's gaze. "I mean, we have to leave town soon, right? Not to abandon you, Greg, but we do have other people to save. So why don't you three go over there and hit the books, Lauren and I'll look for a new hunt."

I could have kissed _him. _Okay, that's usually the case, but still. He'd read me as easily as I'd read him – we were both sick to death of research, and could definitely use a break. This would allow us to stop scrambling our brains with deceased languages and worthless text, and to do something that actually meant something to us, something concrete. Plus, looking for new hunts always felt good, I don't know why, just like I was moving on, doing some new good, maybe. Tracking hunts isn't as easy as you'd think; there aren't blinking neon arrows that scream 'werewolf here!' or whatever. You actually have to shift through a lot of bull and coincidence to get to the real cases. Finding legit ones always felt like I'd accomplished something. Anyways, yes. I just wanted to get out of more reading, truthfully. But whatever works. And we _would_ be leaving as soon as Greg got his magical shit together.

The other three agreed and packed up the piles of books, left, Sharika whispering in my ear just before the three of them drove off in the Impala to talk to Dean about everything. Of course, all this resulted in was me pushing her away, covering with a _very_ fake laugh and telling her loudly, that no, I did not – _so_ sorry – have any tampons on me and she'd have to buy some on the way.

It was only then I realised I'd elected to stay in a motel room with Dean for an undisclosed quantity of time. Alone. With Dean.

_Aw, shit. _

000

_Tuesday, 8:13pm_

"What is it?" Dean asked, turning his head to face me, hazel green eyes clashing with mine, half raised eyebrow punctuating his question. He'd just caught me staring at him as though he were a large, particularly appetising piece of cake, with accompanied drooling and big, desperately hungry eyes. I was so obvious it was beyond obvious, because otherwise Dean would have known _what_ _it_ _was_, I'm sure.

So she told me to do this, right? I can do this. I can _so_ do this.

I looked into his face, smiled, opened my mouth – and the words got stuck, somewhere on the route between my voice box and my tongue, no noise escaping my lips, throat muscles convulsing.

Huh.

Right.

"Nothing."

I can _not _do this.

So, I was at the motel room – _alone, fuck_ – with Dean, in theory looking for a hunt on Sam's laptop, in practice lying on my stomach on the sunken bed, feet in the air, while I checked him out from the corner of my eyes.

He was sitting on the opposite bed; long legs sprawled out in front of him as he read the local newspaper, dark blue denim encasing those tanned, muscled limbs, a green shirt hiding his chest, hair rumpled from continuous meetings with his calloused fingers, eyes sleepy and unfocused. He looked bored, tired and a little grumpy, bottom lip pushed out more than was natural, one brow drawn down as he read, calloused fingers spread across the white and black.

And I wanted to jump him, right now.

This wasn't an unusual feeling, in fact, lust and I had become so well acquainted in the past few months we were filing for china and curtain patterns together. The difference _right now_ was that I was so hot I was considering actually _doing_ something about it, if you can believe.

I shifted on the bed and pressed my hips down into the mattress, stifling a groan. Since I'd cried at him after my fight with Sharika, and the kiss-grind in the belfry, I'd wanted him so badly I could hardly stand it. I still didn't know what to think about anything that had happened, really because I hadn't tried to come to terms with it. I mean, he'd kissed me as a result of the spirit taking over him – and we'd pretty much decided that it's affect was to chuck out any inhibitions the people it possessed had, right? So he'd _kissed _me – I just – I mean, he _wanted_ to do that? It was enormous, and just – really, really fascinating to think about, if I could get over the _fuck-fuck-fuck-scared-for-no-discernable-reason _factor about the whole thing. Okay, seriously? I was a little scared that he actually _reciprocated_ my desperate need to do the horizontal tango, and thus I might actually _get_ to do so. Which would be – fucking _yes_ on one hand, and just, _oh shit_ on the other. Because if I did it with him again, it'd just be more real, and more meaningful – because the library thing? So able to be passed off on a combustion of explosive emotions and vulnerability. If I tried now, and he did accepted and returned, I mean, there's no _excuse_. No spirits, no alcohol, no striking and just-exposed revelations. It would just be me, and Dean, and the two of us having sex. Nothing between us but skin and sweat. It's a concept that I simultaneously revelled in – Dean, naked, always good, right? – and wanted to run far, _far_ away from. If I initiated this, he'd know something. I'd be opening myself to him. And for me? Never the easiest thing to do. Still, I just – I couldn't wait any longer. He was here, I was here, I could hardly control myself around him. All necessary elements to getting it on, right?

Fuck.

_Cold shower,_ I thought wistfully, before discarding the idea. I'd had enough cold showers in the past few days to put out a bushfire – make that _every fire in the goddamn country_, except my own. If it hadn't worked the last million times, it would not work this time. And I'm sure my latest obsession with cleanliness whenever Dean came too close had not gone unnoticed.

I flicked my eyes back to him, having read exactly one sentence of a bland, annoyingly straightforward police report, exactly sixteen and a half times, and trailed my eyes over his relaxed limbs, heat brushing persuasive fingers up my spine, mind counselling me on the fine art of jumping bones. Or just one bone. Repeatedly.

_Oh god. _

I jerked my eyes back to face the screen, eyelashes drooping as I bit my lip. Black and white lines blurred and smudged beneath the intensity of my gaze, thoughts drifting. How hard could it be to just sit up and announce it? 'Dean, let's have sex. As many times as possible until the young ones get home, because then maybe I'll have this fever out of my blood.' Yeah, that sounds sane. _Options, options._ I need _options_. There's the always charming 'Let's fuck', before I pounce on top of him, and hump him senseless. It has its great pointers, and its worse downfalls. Like possibly missing the bed, and hitting my head on something and getting knocked unconscious and falling onto the floor. Or leaping _over_ him and crashing into the wall. Or him tipping me off of him. Or –

_Yeah, not encouraging. _

I could always say something like, 'Jesus, its hot tonight isn't it?' and start stripping until I'm naked. This stops _me_ from having to make the first move. Well the first, _first _move, because technically –

_No way did I have the guts to do that._ What if he just stared at me, and ran away, thinking I was possessed, or had finally cracked or something? Then there was the fact that he just might not want me, at all. _More options. _

I could _'take care of it myself'_. I was a big girl, I could handle it. The thing was, though, it wouldn't be anywhere _near_ as fulfilling, because I wanted _Dean, _I wanted _Dean _inside of me, I wanted _his_ weight pushing me into the sagging bed, on top of me, surrounding me, _in_ me – _oh god._ _So not helping. _Plus there's the fact that I'm not exactly the most quiet person during such activities, so if I took it to the bathroom – _the only real place I'd chance it, right now_ – he'd probably knock the door down when he hears me moaning, only to find, instead of the mass murderer threatening me – or something – that he'd expected, he'd find my hand down my pants. And if there was one way to die of embarrassment, that was surely it.

I cut my eyes on his figure, almost glowering, fingers clutching the sides of the laptop screen with quiet, restrained aggression. Why, _why_ did he have this affect on me? Why couldn't he be _dull_, and _not_ devastatingly gorgeous, and _not_ the love of my life? _Why couldn't I be asexual?!_ He was just sitting there, still reading, perfectly oblivious to my inner turmoil. But then, he usually was. What did I really expect, for him to turn to me suddenly and voice every thought in my head, then act them out? For him to climb over here and get on top of me and start going at it, with out either of us having to say a word? _Oh god, I have to stop envisioning these things. Resistance, dangling by a thread. I have mentioned that, right? _

I wasn't _actually_ thinking about doing something – was I? After what had happened last time – I mean, everything that had come after – and – could I really? Could I bear it? Second question… could I bear _not_ to? I had to have him. When I wasn't touching him it felt like I was forgetting something essential; like how to eat, or breathe, or fire a gun. I loved him – I knew he didn't feel the same, but maybe if I could just show him, then – maybe if he just let me – I didn't _need_ him to – I could –

_Options. I need more options! _What other options were there? I could… I could… go to sleep. Or I could just subtly _hint _that I might maybe kind of be thinking vaguely about perhaps –

"Dean, I want you." _Oops does not cover it. Oops comes nowhere __near__ covering it. Oops is redundant. And I don't care. _"Right now. Inside me, _right now_." Once I had started, I couldn't seem to stop. My mouth just opened, the words dropped out like heavy rocks in a previously still pool, creating incessant ripples that flowered and spread outward, turning into waves of temperature inside of me as I looked into his eyes, stood up, walked towards him, _crawled_ towards him on the bed where he was still sitting, eyes wide as he stared at me, hands and newspaper flopping into his lap in shock. I slithered up the bed, my mouth still dropping stones and my body paused where I straddled his knees, my hands on either side of his waist, pressing into the mattress as I leaned forwards to meet those fallen angel eyes, wide and dark and startled. "I want you so much I can't stop saying it. I want you so much I'm doing _this_. Dean," I said his name, and wanted to whimper – _I was making such a fucking ass of myself _– closed my eyes instead, so I wouldn't have to see his, wouldn't have to read the astonishment plain in his face, because clearly I _was_ going to die of humiliation, without once getting an ounce of fulfilment from it. _I should have gone and masturbated, for sure, _I thought sarcastically. "_Please_," I breathed, and opened my eyes again, meeting his with something I refused to see as appeal, propping a semblance of a jaunty, unaffected grin on my mouth as if to say – _just kidding, buddy; you can turf me off your lap now and we can both have a good laugh._

As though this was a sign he was suddenly gripping my upper arms, pulling me down onto him, against the long, hard, lean length of his body, against his heat, against – oh, _hello_. The newspaper crinkled loudly, indignant beneath my weight and he worked a hand between us, flung it aside – and I kissed him. Considering I'd been fantasising about it for what seemed like forever – _it was even better than I'd imagined_. Dizziness swept up through my head, made a point of dancing behind my eyes like an underpaid stripper, and imploded, shooting stars through my veins like sticky, candy coated fireworks; cloying, sweet, explosive. _Hot. So fucking hot. _His tongue flicked against the seam of my lips, and I breathed in sharply, before increasing the pressure, moving my hands up to hold his cheeks, angling my head to the side, tangling my tongue with his. He tasted so _good_. Just like I remembered; bittersweet and smooth and edgy and _Dean. Dean. _I stroked my hands up to grip his hair like a lifeline, short, softly bristling strands running through my fingers as I parted our mouths for a second to gasp in a breath before I crashed back into him, having to have him – have that contact – that wet, enveloping heat. _Dean. _

His hands had moved down my back, and were now gripping my ass, strong fingers digging into soft flesh, and he arched up, rubbing against me and I moaned. I _moaned_, wanting him like the last time, wanting him _more_ than the last time, because I knew just how it would feel. How _good_ it would feel. _I_ _knew_. Every other thought left my head like it had never been there, qualms fleeing out like bullets; because once this had started it couldn't feel wrong, it couldn't be nervous. It was too _right_ – and it left no room for doubts. I moaned again, and moved back an inch so I could look down at his face where it lay bracketed between my palms, wanting to savour it this time. Wanting to make it even better. Slower.

000

_Tuesday, 8:21:48pm_

I was mewling – making this little, humiliating noise right in the back of my throat like a freaking _kitten _– and once I realised I tried to swallow the involuntary sound down, so he wouldn't hear just how turned on I was – I was fucking _needy_ – he wouldn't – I was _beyond_ turned on, my light bulb was getting a _lightning_ frequency and I sounded like a _kitten_ –

"Don't stop –" he rumbled, tires over gravel, moving down to kiss my neck, sucking the skin there, marking it with his teeth – and I make this little breathy sound like 'rnngh' – trying to mouth out a question as he swayed up slowly between my thighs again – making me feel – making me _feel_ it and –

"Huh?" I managed to squeak out, all weird and high, and he licked my earlobe, just one quick, hot swipe across the skin. I lost my tenuous hold on dignity, and made that kitten sound again, a desperate, deprived noise in the back of my throat. I felt his smile, a curve against my skin before he took the lobe in his mouth, tugged, sucked on it a little. "_Dean_."

"You called?"

"Don't –" but he smothered the protest with his snake tongue, distracting me with his lips as it did things that I didn't know tongues _could_ do – making me breathless as I thought where else that tongue could go, _Jesus Christ_ – and his big, warm hand trailed down my side, smoothing across the black material and pushing the top button of my jeans open with his thumb. I hissed then, right into his mouth, and I felt his laugh growl through me like vibrations from the Impala, melting as his fingers slipped a little further down, easing over the quivery flesh just under my navel. _Oh god. _Dean's hand slid lower. I swallowed down the whine trying to climb it's way out of my throat and put my hand over his, unlatching it from the back of his neck where it had had a stranglehold, not sure whether I was trying to stop him from going further south or press it down harder.

He parted our mouths to breathe, and I sucked air in, pushing my head back against the pillow, neck arching to expose the pale line of my throat, chest working like an anvil as I tried to get enough in to function properly. He bit the straining tendons, licked them, and I swear I almost choked.

_My turn_, I thought, and snaked my hands around to grip his butt, pulling him hard against me, and it was his turn to stop breathing. _Yeah, that's right bitch – _I thought, grinning, and then he was pulling me into it, by my hips, up onto it, and I moaned. It wasn't fucking fair – _I want to make him sound like that – right now – _and then I pushed at his shoulder, flipping so I was on top of him again, pressed flush against the obvious evidence of his arousal, grinding down into him and watching his face tense and his eyes jump open wide and burn as he groaned. _Take that, _my grin and raised eyebrow said, making even this into a competition – a game – _some fucking game_ – _hey, a pun!_ – and he laughed, kissed me again. _Thoughts gone. Oh god, do that __again_

His shirt had rucked up to show me his abdomen, and I slid my hands under the material, up to his chest as I lent down to kiss the muscles, tracing the contours with my tongue, tasting the tangy, masculine, musky-sweet flavour of his skin, scraping teeth across it, just to feel. Everything was overlaid by the edge of dark, lusty franticness for gratification – but I still wanted to _experience_ him, wanted to have some kind of concrete memories of having done something other than straight out fuck. Stealing a look up at his face from under golden curls spread across his stomach and dangling in my eyes, I saw him watching me, and flicked my tongue into his bellybutton, watching him squirm, and loving it.

I wanted to get at all of his flesh – mark him up – taste every inch – discover every bit of him – everywhere it made him make noises and move – explore the sounds he created like a living map – the scars that marred him – scars that _made_ him –

"Take it off," I growled, mouth having to catch up with my thoughts for once, instead of vice versa.

"What was that?" he asked, and beneath the desire I saw the spark and spirit that made me love him, and the lust rose another notch. I was going to explode if he – and then – I wanted to just _take_ him – right there, with that look on his face, in his eyes, that too smug-satisfied smile smeared across his lips. But hey, if he wanted to _play_ –

000

_Tuesday, 8:43:34pm_

I toppled forwards, bracing myself with my hands on the pillow either side of his head, and he nuzzled in between my breasts, whiskers that I was just now noticing scraping on sensitive skin. I swallowed hard, because it itched and kind of hurt – even though I didn't want it to stop, because rough, _rough is good,_ and _Dean_ – and then his lips were playing join-the-dots with the freckles on my collarbone, and I couldn't wait any longer.

"Okay, okay," I muttered quickly, and lifted myself onto my knees, unsnapped his jeans, and carefully slid the zipper down. My eyes met his when I looked up, and he was just watching me, and I – had to – _had_ _to_ – I pulled the denim down, bunching it around his thighs, not even wanting to wait long enough to take them off completely – and managed to lose my _own_ jeans, somehow staying on top of the bed. "Pants are evil," I moaned, when I was eventually on top of him once more. "Never, ever wear them again."

He smirked up at me. "If you promise to go around topless."

"Negotiate later, kiss now." And for once, he listened to me, sliding his hands up around my neck to pull me down into it – a soft, sweet, slow kiss that melted my bones. I sighed and smiled against his mouth when he parted us, blinking into his gaze, feeling his breath skitter like dancing butterflies against my cheek. "Lose the shirt."

"Yes ma'am." I helped him pull it over his head, watching the muscles across his chest flex and move, my mouth drying, and I flung the green material away, somewhere over my shoulder, no longer caring about it now that it wasn't a barrier between his skin and mine. Smoothed my hands over his pectorals, silky, warm, hard, twitching flesh beneath my palms, and grinned, watching him. "Lose the underwear."

"When you lose yours, Casanova." _If this was yet another thing we were going to turn into a competition_ – and he grabbed my knees and rolled us again, slid my underwear off, shucked all the remaining physical constraints still on him, and was back between my thighs before I could so much as say the word 'player'. "Player." _Okay, maybe not. _

"I'm not the one fondling my own breasts to get my way," he said, "not that I'm complaining." And then stopped talking, grinned, and rubbed his thigh against my – well, _yeah_. Did I happen to mention he's a tease? His whole body was tense and rigid with control as he moved against me, stiff with restraint, heated length craving friction against my hip, corded muscles of his arms gleaming either side of my head, and I moved against him too, relishing his hardness against my softness, and he shuddered as I scraped my nails down his back, and I _loved_ it, loved _him_. He slid a hand under the back of my head, cupping the curve of my skull, and forced it up to meet his mouth, crushing his lips against mine while he stroked inside with his tongue, slick, wet heat curling down to my toes, and back up again, rioting at pinpointed areas of my anatomy. _Groin, head, groin – groan – uhnn – fuck –_ I writhed under the twin tortures of his mouth and hands – there – _there_ – needing him so much that I finally broke away from his kiss and panted, heaving in breaths so I could speak, mouth open wide and soft and helpless – not wide enough – not enough – _never_ _enough_. _Dean – Dean – please – now – now – _

"Now," I said wildly, and pulled his hips to me. _No more waiting – no more – _"Now. I want you inside me _now_," and he kissed me again, swift and hard, then moved away from me. _Wait – what? _"_No_ –" and he ran a hand up my abdomen to caress my breast again, calluses a rough graze across my sensitive flushed skin.

"Just for a minute," he husked, staring into my eyes from where he was sitting now on the edge of the bed. Hazel green eyes burning and hungry – _devour me_ – and full of all that intense focus and concentration that he had in everything – all that life, all that force centred on pinning me to the bed with that look. _I want to be pinned by something else, damnit. _"Don't move. Stay just like that. It's just for a minute, I promise you."

I groaned with the frustration and the hunger, watching him reach in the bedside draw, and leant over, licked his spine and smiled against the skin when he shivered. _Tell me to stay, will you? _But thoughts were getting increasingly hard to form, every cell in my body felt swollen and overloaded with desire. _­Dean, Dean, Dean. _And then he was turning back, pulling me to him, kissing me, rolling us so he was on top again. I arched my hips to him, and he slowly slid inside me, and I think I might have lost my mind, died and gone to heaven, and flew – just a little.

I bucked up once, sharply, galvanised by the shock of him so hard inside of me, bringing sweet relief and tormenting pleasure at the same time, and then I began to surge against him, over and over, again and again – _again – just like that – _out of control as he moved – _Dean moved – _against me, inside me, with me, over and over, again and again and _again_ – _"– again –"_ – oh _god_, holding me so tightly that I felt safe and destroyed at the same time, the provoking rhythm of him inside me driving me beyond delicious heat and into ecstasy. I wrapped my legs around him, his waist, trying to bring him closer, to hold him forever so that feeling would never stop, pulling him into me harder, and he laced his fingers in my curls, and pulled my head up to face him as he rocked inside of me, golden body curved over me like a bow, hips snapping forwards. He slid over that spot inside, rubbing, and white hot pleasure flashed through me, accompanied by a strangled scream that I let loose into the skin of his bicep, biting down, panting and tangling and twining my body and legs and his hips and mouth and –

I forced my eyes open, meeting his, the pupils blown wide, and he kissed me, said, "Lauren," and groaned, bit my lip, the sharp edge of that tiny pain just contrasting the sweet pressure inside of me, blood screaming and hot and swelling in my veins until I exploded in his arms, hearing my name said in that husky, strained representation of his voice, repeating inside my head, telling me I wasn't just anyone – Dean saw _me_ – he wanted _me_ – he was inside _me_. I arched upwards once more, into him – _to him_ – _Dean_ – _fuck_ – lost, locked there while my orgasm flooded into my fingertips and sent my mind on a one way trip to oblivion, eyes still on his.

Laying there gasping, blood and heat pounding in my temples and swirling still all over and through my body, I felt him still rocking into me, squeezing our bodies even tighter together, hips working, and was caught and swung along in the ebb and flow of him inside of me. And then I felt him tense hard in my arms and moan into my hair, finally breaking eye contact, and then we were both quiet, clinging to each other, inhaling gasps of shallow, unsatisfying air.

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AN: So… that's that. And sorry this chapter was so crap this week; I have two _actually legitimate _excuses, I hope. A) My beta and I had a falling out, and I can admit she is the _only _reason my writing is good, ever. I miss her. I need her back. Like, today. Now. Except she probably hates me, so that's not going to happen. B) I literally just finished this chapter NOW. So, hot off the press does not equal great and up to standard when it's from me. Hopefully next week will be better – if not, abandon ship y'all. It can only get worse.

_Promo: _

_Short one with aftermath of what happened here, I think. Yes. Because… I have to write the whole thing this week. Goddamn, I hate being behind. I need to write FASTER!! _


	38. Had Better Quick, Sharp, Remove It

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38. Had Better Quick, Sharp, Remove It

_If you can fake that, you've got it made._

_-- Groucho Marx_

"So…"

"Yeah." _Pause. Look over his shoulder as he pulls on his pants. _"Next time we do this, we'll go slower."

"_Next_ time?"

"Yeah, _next_ time."

"Who says there will _be_ a next time?"

"What, you don't _want_ a next time?"

"I never said _that_."

"Then what _are_ you saying?"

"Well, what are _you_ saying?"

"I'm saying I hope there's a next time, and a time after that, and a time after that, alright? We're good together. Best sex I've had in a long time."

_Turn away. Roll out of bed. Sheet covering, automatic. Reach for t-shirt. Don't meet his eyes. _"Yeah. Next time." _Pause. Catch breath. _"Dean, toss me my jeans?"

000

The next time they do it it's not slow. Slower. If anything, it's more rushed than the last time. More everything – except clear.

It's a week later and they've just killed off a pack of possessed sheep – don't even _ask_ – shooting them all in the head and heart with consecrated iron rounds, running and ducking and rolling in mud and grass and animal droppings. They're wiping their faces free of blood and guts and sweat and wool, panting and leaning against the Impala doors, all four of them with guns dangling loose in their hands. She's strung out and a little pissed off, left over adrenaline searching for an easy place to go.

The two of them hadn't been avoiding the issue, per se – that is, them fucking like rabbits on steroid-laced carrots – like they had the first time, but they hadn't exactly been sharing and caring either. It was her – she didn't talk, she repressed or acted. Mostly repressed. Dean, well, he was only doing it to get laid. And even if she had thought about telling him, they hadn't had any time to themselves, anyhow; the other two were always around, in a way that was more noticeable now that opportunities for solitude _together_ were being looked for. Besides, what is she supposed to say – she thinks that is the real question. She'd been the one to start it, this time. The one to initiate. But she's not going to start talking about feelings, or push him into a chick flick moment, as he calls those unerringly awkward imparting of emotions that normal people have when they want to talk about their issues. Yeah, she's a coward. Too scared to ask, too scared to know. She's not even sure if she wants to know, or if she just wants to keep coasting along in this semi-pleasurable existence, where nothing needs to be said about anything, at all. Nothing needed to be clarified, nothing needed to be hashed over, again and again until it sounded like something a soap opera would produce. She's just – she's happy, right here, strumming with energy and a job finished, perspiration trickling like fingers down her spine, sticking her t-shirt to her chest. She's just going to let it flow, let it go. Do it.

So, she's propped against the passenger side door, head tipped back to stare at the winking stars, and the others are starting to shuffle towards the trunk to put their weapons away when Dean passes her, and she says it. Just grins up at him, eyes sly above the falsely innocent curve of her mouth, and spits it out all quiet like, because if he isn't going to make a move, she isn't going to pussyfoot around any longer. She'd had enough of that before hand. Had enough of it to last her a fucking lifetime. Either he wants her or he doesn't. "Fast, rough and dirty," she almost purrs, sex thick on her tongue, and his body automatically stiffens in response, his eyes widening slightly in something like shock. She smirks. "Just how I like 'em." Then she turns to Sam and Sharika, puts bubbles and perky-cheerleader in her tone – "Hey, who wants Thai for dinner? I'm starved."

Five minutes later has them grappling together on the backseat of the Impala, Sharika and Sam gone inside to tell the farm's residents that their field is clean of the demon flock again. Her pants tangling around her ankles, her thighs spreading, fingers clutching and digging into the upholstery as he fucks into her from behind; fast, rough and dirty, just how she'd asked for it.

She comes on a muffled scream, biting down on the t-shirt between her teeth, he with a groan in the back of her sweaty neck. When the other two come back they don't give any sign if they notice the swollen lips or mussed hair.

It's the start of a running trend.

000

They fuck in bar toilets, library toilets, and laundromat toilets. They fuck in various motels for snatched minutes of time. They fuck in the Impala. They fuck on the Impala. On one memorable occasion they fuck _under _the Impala.

She's not sure when she got so hungry for him – maybe it's always been this way. Every time he turns around she just wants to drag him off somewhere and devour his skin. Now that she can do it, it hasn't gotten old. If anything, it's just made her want him more, to see how far she can go and get away with it. She wants to see how close she can get to him before he pushes back, pushes her away. So far he's gone along with all of her propositions, and initiated a fair few of his own. They can't seem to stop, get enough. One touch can ignite the need. One offhand comment. One hunt. One fight. One look. It goes on until she thinks she's gone crazy with the lust, the quick, hurried sessions in cramped quarters, usually standing or twisted uncomfortably. Gasps and glimpses of his flesh. Nothing concrete.

It's been two weeks since the possessed sheep and they've had sex so many times she's lost count. She supposes she's making up for lost time, but really she has no excuse. This desire for him is out of control; a maelstrom of love and desperation, the instinct to be close to him overriding any stirrings of common sense. She wants to have as much of him as she can all at once, hoard it all inside of her, tight under her breast. It's a gut reaction more than anything, why she's doing it she can't exactly get a handle on – it's just something she has to do.

Has to.

000

Soliloquised hum of the malfunctioning air-conditioner above her head, relentless droning that repeated – clacks and whines and quiet stutters, over and over and over, never changing tune. The clatter of cutlery and porcelain in the kitchen sinks, not twenty feet away; whirr of working dishwashers and the click of gas cookers; the sizzle of rashes of brown bacon and sunny-side eggs; chop and crunch of knives on vegetables and wooden boards. The chatter of the cook and the waitresses; the crackle of the fuzzed-out radio – something by Elvis, she thinks. It sounds like The King; snatches of lyrics spurting out to hang from her eardrums, fading and rising, falling and soaring into the indistinguishable mass of other noises of the diner, and the sharp contrast of conversation among her companions.

"_I found a new place to dwell; it's down the end of a lonely street…" _

"Another water spirit? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Well, I'm not a hundred percent, Dean. It's just that all signs point to it; that's where Mildred drowned –"

"Wait, this chick's name is _Mildred?_ Oh, god how she must hate her parents."

"…_you make me so lonely baby …" _

She looks up from a contemplative study of her dry, half-eaten egg salad sandwich, eyes passing over the boys Winchester. One sat across from her in full sunlight, yellow beams pulling golden brown hues into the edges of his wind-tousled hair, shedding warm light on tanned skin. His long, narrow hands lay deceptively gentle alongside the screen of his laptop, the skull on the back taunting her; one elongated finger taps an agitated rhythm against the peppermint green surface of the table. Next to her is the older one, one dark eyebrow slanted, hazel green eyes sceptical as he talks to his brother, discusses their newest hunt. He had one arm lying close behind her on the booth, almost around her neck and shoulders, near enough she can feel the heat burning through the air to her fluctuate over her bare skin. There's a dusting of icing sugar on his lower lip, leftovers from his powdered donut – _"Saving it for Ron",_ he'd said, when she'd told him it was there. She tries not to stare at it too long; the impulse to lean over and suck his lip into her mouth, tongue off the white sprinkle, taste the sweetness heavy, Dean's flavour overwhelming – yeah. She just tries not to look at it.

Next to the younger boy sits the dark woman, eating crumbling chocolate cake with the cheerful abandon of a child – mud brown specks on her chin, the corner of her wide mouth – licking them off her fingertips in a way that left the individual adjacent to her thoroughly distracted. His blue green eyes peeked, back and forth, from his laptop to the woman, bottom lip pulled into his mouth, gnawed on with oblivious sensuality. If the way he shifts in his seat is any indication, his imagination is working overtime.

The blonde woman smiles, rakes a hand through her hair, massaging where it's pulled up with a clip, the curls spilling out and over, unwilling to be confined, unruly locks trailing over a shoulder, the curve of a smooth cheek. She pushes her plate away and leans back, nudging Dean's thigh under the table with hers. He nudges back, still talking with Sam – "We have to do _what_ now?" – and she can see the almost invisible twitch of his mouth, a smile hidden under all the layers. She wishes she could lean over and kiss it; see for herself what that little, secret grin tastes like. She can't, though. It's too intimate, for one – connoting that they have a real relationship, that they aren't just casual fuck buddies, which she knows isn't true.

After all, they'd only just come back from the diners' facilities, both of them crushed into a stall, her legs braced on the opposite wall as he bucked up into her, lips latched onto the delicate spot behind her ear, her hands tangling in his shirt, nails catching on the soft flesh of her palms. She feels gritty; nerves overexposed and raw, as if there's dirt ground down into and beneath the layers of her skin. The bathroom was pretty fucking dirty – dark green mould climbing into the cracks of the white floor tiles, walls smudged grey with other peoples' sweat. She's clinging to the rush of them together, rather than this feeling tainting her now, leaving her unfulfilled. It wasn't physical; her body had definitely climaxed – twice. No, it's the sway of black thoughts about stupid feelings and the lack of words spoken. Words like love, or maybe. Or even just some kind of spoken acknowledgement of the change in their relationship – not just the tangible one of them fucking against every passably flat surface. She doesn't want anything like a declaration – idiocy can only go so far. She's just looking for – for something. Anything.

She wishes she had someone to talk to about this, someone who could help her understand it better – but she hasn't exactly told Sharika what she's been doing – yet. She will, really. Soon. She's learnt her lesson about stuff like that – keeping secrets. She's just looking for the right time to say it. It's not just something she can spill as easy as salt or holy water. It has to be planned down to the last detail – every fact aimed and guided and let go with precision. Yeah, she's going to tell her best friend. See, she would have even told her before – but it's a little complex. The dark woman, could she really understand? Probably not, it's not like she'd ever had sex before; she didn't know how it made a person feel, spiritually or physically. _This_ is the reason as to why the blonde woman is choosing to tell her best friend, later, when there's time enough for a _real_ explanation on how she feels and why she's doing it. Maybe Sharika could help her understand this curious up-welling of shame she underwent, sometimes, thinking about it. How it made her flush pink all over at the thought – having sex everywhere, where anyone could see, as though it were a common practice for her. But then again, the dark woman was logical, she'd come up with a pragmatic solution that might not meet the blonde's needs emotionally – she just wouldn't _get _that she needed more than an answer to what wasn't _really_ a problem, as such, more of a… complication. This is why she has to have the time to clarify and bundle up neatly exactly how she felt, cram into a little package that she could tie with a bow and present easy and swift and _there, done. _Yeah, this is why. She just needs a little time, that's all.

Not Sam though; she can't tell him. She can't even imagine what that'd be like – _hey, Sam?_ Yeah? _I'm fucking Dean, like, a lot. I love him. _… Silence. She can feel the drowning power of the impending embarrassment from here. Let Dean deal with that, if he wants Sammy to know. It's _his _problem, not hers. Except if he doesn't _tell_ Sam, and then she might have to _make _it her problem, because keeping Sam out of the loop is one sure way of getting his back up – and no one, _but no one,_ wants that. The Bitch Face is legendary in their circle by now. And, yeah, Sam kind of deserved to know. Sort of. Maybe. Being her family and all. Maybe he'd figure it out for himself.

God, that conversation on the most-horrible-things-fucking-_ever_ scale made Hannibal Lector look like a girl scout. Without the stale cookies.

Sharika finally catches Sam's eyes on her, two fingers sucked in past her lips, up to her knuckles, tongue running through the seam between, sticky flecks of chocolate and smears of icing disappearing into the warm wetness of her mouth. "Wha'?" she mumbles around them, eyebrow raised in question at Sam.

"Nothin'," he says, tugging his eyes away.

The dark woman's eyes flick away from him, down to the slab on her plate, and she stares at it, brow wrinkled slightly before it cleared and she smiled. Taking her fingers out, she cleans them off on a crumpled napkin at her elbow and picks off a medium sized bite of the cake, holding it out like an offering, hovering it just in front of Sam's face. "Cake?" she says, licking her teeth clean.

She obviously wasn't catching onto what Sammy was actually hungry for.

This pink tinge was starting to flag the taller boy's cheeks – just enough colour to be noticeable, not enough to suggest any real emotion. Slumping even further down against squeaky vinyl, the blonde woman watches his eyes widen, blue green following the swaying fingers before his chin. He's wishing, daring – but he's not quite brave or motivated enough to _do _something about it. It's obvious he wants to; his eyes are hungry, not just for the cake but for Sharika, he wants to lean forwards and take her mouth, see if it tastes just like chocolate, as he thinks it must. Desire and love and lust and guilt and responsibility and fear of rejection are warring inside his form, the slide of them all swirling together, unbidden, disguised beneath shoulders hunched forwards slightly. Betrayed by the rhythm of his fingers on green, faster, even more erratic – tap tap _tap_tap taptaptaptap _tap_.

"No thanks," he said, after what really must have only been a second or so, but felt perversely like a small eternity. He pressed his lips together, trying not to smile despite himself. He managed to give the image of smirking with the twist of his eyes up at the corners, challenging the dark woman, egging her on. Pulling her into something they both were far too ready for, and yet, not nearly ready enough. Cajoling. The expression in his eyes is strangely free – unburdened. Like he's seizing this moment. Not worrying about before, or after. Just now.

"Really?" Sharika asked, and stared down at the cake in her pinched fingertips, biting the inner lining of her bottom lip. The blonde could see it tucked in on the corner, before she switched her gaze back to the tall boy, his eyes seemingly staring at the chocolate splodge in Sharika's hand, but really staring at the hand itself. She can sense his desire to eat the cake, lick the dark woman's hand free of the chocolate, before skimming his lips upwards, upwards and _up_ along her smooth flesh, flickering his tongue out to taste the salty sweetness of her skin beneath, until he reached the heated cavern of her mouth. "If you say so..." And then she smushed it against Sam's lips, spreading chocolate all along his jaw line when he jerked with surprise. Laughing. Brimming with her love, beneath the teasing.

This started a fight between them, both giggling with joyous abandon, trying to push cake into the other's face, mouth, hair. Their eyes are lit with identical feeling, that only an outsider could truly observe – the ease between them stealing her breath and locking it away from her lungs, tightening her throat with indescribable emotion. They're just being themselves, nothing between them but this moment, how they feel shining so clear through their bodies. No weight, no hoarding. No 'has to'.

They're in love. And they're happy.

And she wants to be like that. But she can't.

Her thigh is nudged again, by the older boy. Her eyes flick up, and he sends her that toe-curling smile, the one she'd only discovered and undergone this fortnight. The one that promises quick, physical gratification and pleasure.

They leave the innocent to their deeds, to follow their own.

000

Everything's climbing and wrenching inside her in the drive back to the motel – tangling in a web of words and lies and truths and emotions. She pushes it back, tension strumming and plucking at her senses, anticipation. _Is it? _She sits, hands clasped tight and white-knuckled in her lap, eyes blind and focused out beyond the windshield, shoulders pushing back against the yielding surface of the Impala's seating. It's cold.

She's not sure what she's doing anymore, if she ever was. Has she ever been sure of anything, ever, since she was thirteen and loved unequivocally by half of a lie of a family? Everything is skewed crazily to the left; one scene at one diner, out of the hundreds she's patroned in her existence – it takes that one with its just-mopped cream linoleum and a waitress named Moira to cause an epiphany. Again. Simply, she's being an idiot. Again. Pressing down all her fears into her intestines, leaving them to writhe there untended, denying them as they rot away at her slowly because she's going after _what she wants,_ even if it's in a round about sort of way, and it's going to kill her eventually. Probably.

No, no. She's not being overdramatic. She thinks this love will really cause her death one day. If she doesn't throw herself in front of him to save his skin, she might just kill herself in a flood of overactive self pity, twenty or so years from now. It might be a good idea to end it quickly, instead of dragging it out, having to watch the relationship mould and crumble into nothingness. She doesn't think she could stand that, watching what they had – friendship, comradeship, some kind of tentative understanding – melt away into the ether because they both want something completely different. Of course, she has no idea what he wants, but she doubts it's the forever and always she has beating an ever-present tattoo in the back of her skull. She doubts it's the true love ideal that shines like a beacon somewhere under her sternum. It's more likely along the lines of a _wham, bam, thank you ma'am,_ with the added bonus that he doesn't have to come up with a cover story about his identity.

"Hey," he said next to her, snapping her out of her thoughts, and she jerks her head to glance at him, and away, a crick stabbing into her neck. She massaged it, and he says, "What's wrong?" like he actually cares. Probably just feeling out how likely he is to get more nookie today.

She sends him a pale bandaid smile, says, "Nothin'. Can't you drive the old gal any faster?" as she slides a hand onto the meat of his thigh, grips high, and rubs slowly and meaningfully. It's an easy way to put him off, she thinks, watching his fingers clamp around the car's stealing wheel. Sex, sex, sex. That's all it ever is. Everything. It's always about sex.

On one level, she's glad. Protects her from doing anything even worse than what she already is. She wonders briefly if that's possible, and grins into the look he sends her way, pretending. Pretending. Always pretending.

She's mad, and she wants it. Wants sex, fast, sweaty. Eradicating all these thoughts that crowd her as bull flies, biting at her sensitive flesh. She just wants to be able to hold onto something. Anything. If this is all there is, it has to be enough. It has to.

Has to.

The car rolls to a smooth stop outside the motel room and she snaps off her belt, turns to him with a rush and clicks their teeth together in a harsh kiss, noses bumping, mouths misaligned, and she tugs and nips at his bottom lip, pulling at it hard, swallowing the gasp-groan he makes down into herself. _She can taste the icing sugar, _she thinks, and licks into his mouth, running her tongue along the back of his teeth, making him shudder. _Has to. Has to be. _She pulls off before he can reciprocate, eyes burning with things she hopes he cannot read, mouth blood red and swollen because she was hard, and he was harder. Pulls his face up to hers, and says, "You," voice coarse and thick, sticking in her throat. She was mad. Seriously mad. She was everything he didn't understand. Didn't want to. And she was going to do something about it, damnit. She had to. Had to. Can't help herself. Has to. Everything sloshes inside her as a mixture of chemicals and acids and endorphins. Hormones. Love. Hate. Half realised wishes.

Everything.

She moves, off him, out. Stalked into the room and paused, just breathing. Just. Just having to. Had to. Has to. Must. Can't. Have to. She hears him behind her, coming inside, following, shutting the door quietly. Blocked out the sounds of the street, the parking lot, the cars rushing by, people. Blocked out everything that wasn't here, him and her, and the rumpled beds.

She'd already stripped off her sweatshirt and shoes and was unbuttoning her jeans, in a rush of apathy and coldness. Uncaring. She wants to get this done, wants to prove a point. Wants. Wants. Has to. "Lose the clothes," she says, not looking at him, eyes fixed where her fingers pop, one, two, three, four, the buttons, down and down and down.

"Got an itch, Lauren?" he says, and her mouth twitches involuntarily.

"That's right." She wiggled out of the jeans, her underwear, tossed back her hair, golden curls writhing on and across her broad, bare shoulders. Her body was pink and white, with that elegant cloud of hair tumbling down to tease her peaked breasts, held back with a blue cotton bra. Her eyes, flaming a deep green and gold, and suddenly full of challenge, meet his with a force somewhat like a hard, sweaty fist slamming into his stomach. His breath caught, and he struggled not to let it show – how she affected him. The slippery knots of lust twining around the pounding fist. Maybe it was his heart. "Got any problem scratching it?" her body is tense as a bowstring, and he watches her, wary, eyes narrow.

"Not that I can think of." He shrugged out of his jacket, feigning carelessness, threw it aside. Watched the glide of muscles under her smooth, pale skin as she rolled her shoulders and cut her eyes at him. As she just waited for him to get on with it, chin raised with a hint of daring as she smirked at him. He couldn't see beneath that bold red and white smile, and she wasn't letting him, eyes closed off, half shuttered with dark lashes. Glinting golden eyes that taunted him as he got rid of his shirt, his shoes, before she turned away to pull down the covers. He'd been off about her mood, he realised, eyeing the smooth expanse of creamy, bare skin on display. She'd already worked up to a good mad and was looking for a handy place to put it.

Goes without saying that he really didn't mind being that handy place. At all.

When she reached up to unclasp her bra, he stepped over, gripped her hands, trapping them – for one erotic moment – behind her. Then he released her to trail his fingers down her spine. Lips twitched at the way the muscles shuddered outwards at the touch, ripples on disturbed water. Her skin felt like heated silk under his fingertips. "Leave something for me, will you?"

She shrugged, then, fisting a hand in his hair, yanked his mouth to hers.

She used her teeth, her nails, setting the mood for fast, hot sex with just a hint of mean. Wrapped her arms around him tight as coils, bit his lip, nibbled her way along his jaw line, his ear. Scraped her teeth down the line of his neck, sucked hard where it met his shoulder. She wasn't looking for fancy touches or soft flourishes, but for sweat and speed. She was telling him _now_ – and did not expect him to refuse her.

She felt his body's instant response, the hard hammer blow of his heart, the lightning strike of heat that punched through her. His mouth fed off hers, and his hands began to take, fingers digging in to brand and bruise at her waist, her hips, pulling her hard against him, into him. _Had to._ _Has to. _

She was already wet and ready when she shoved him back on the bed.

She would have straddled him and made quick work of it, but he flipped her over, trapped her body under his. Set his teeth on her breast. Her hips jerked, her hands clamped on his, and she ground herself against him in frantic, furious demand, his warmth so close to her, too close, but so far away. So fucking far. She had to _– had to –_ _"Please." _

His vision hazed with red as the fierce bite of need tore through his system, simultaneous with the scoring of her teeth on his shoulder, the scratch of her nails down his back, raking red grooves of fire into the skin. He wrenched her bra down to her waist, filled his mouth with her even as he shoved his hand between them, drove his fingers into the heat of her and shot her brutally over the edge.

She exploded under him, her body writhing, straining, then gathering itself for another leap. She was making those _sounds_, loud, clouded moans and pants, her hips pistoning until he was as wild as she.

They rolled, grappling for more in a slippery, mindless battle that had thrill ramming into thrill. Her mouth was fevered and ravenous; gobbling up every inch of his skin it touched, tongue flicking out to get more of that essential taste. Her hands greedy and swift as they fisted and twisted and ran over his body. He knew he'd rather die warring with her than live in peace with anyone else.

With her breath sobbing, she rose over him and took him inside her with one hard, definitive thrust. The dark glory of it drowned her, flooded her until the anger and doubts drowned in the fall and sky high fly of sensation.

_This was real_, she told herself. _This was enough_

And she watched him watch her take him.

Fast and hot, focused on those twin goals of pleasure and release. She rode him with a ruthless energy that turned her own body into a morass of greed. For speed, for passion. For _more_. Held onto his shoulders, tight as anything, to ground herself, grind herself down harder.

When she felt his fingers vise on her hips, when she saw those brilliant hazel green eyes go blind, she threw her head back and flew off the end of the world with him. Told herself, _this had to be enough. Had to. _

She was still shuddering when she slid down to him. Her breath was ragged as his when her head fell heavy on his shoulder. His smooth chest, filmed with sweat, pushed up and down under her weight, unsteady breaths pulled in and out. He managed to hook an arm around her and decided he would probably regain feeling in his extremities at some point. _Maybe._ For now it was just fine to lie there bruised, battered, and blissful.

"What's the occasion?" he asked her, between the puffed breaths. She stilled, his arms heavy around her, wrapped. Close. But not. _God, it had to be enough. It has to be. Had to be. She has to get away. _

"There has to be an occasion for me to want to fuck you into the ground now?" she said, raising an eyebrow as she braced an elbow on the bed, pushed up to look into those – _fucking, fucking, why, has to, why Dean, why do you – _hazel green eyes. Grinned at him as though she really was fine, fine, fine, fine, just a little fucked out. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That's all they were. And she had to make it be enough. Had to. If she wanted anything of him. "The others'll be back soon." And she got up, picked up and put on her clothes, pretending, pretending. Always pretending. No, she wasn't shaking. No she didn't want to scream. No, she wasn't going to cry. No, no. No. She left him with his ears still ringing, heart pounding fit to burst clean out of his chest. He stared at the closed door, blinking, then flopped back.

Outside she sucked in a breath of half-frozen, polluted air, and rubbing a hand across her puffy mouth, wiping away his taste, wiping away the act, wiping away everything. Because it had to be enough. Just.

It had to.

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AN: Props to CountessSia for her steroid-laced carrots, which I shamelessly stole. Apologies for the late update. Kisses for everyone who doesn't want to murder me. XD Which means no macking for anyone, huh? Tsk.

_Promo: _

_A sound. _

_There is a sound she hears through the darkness, an irregular throbbing, beating slower and fainter to her ears, dark and unsteady, a familiar, faded pulsation. Th–thump. Th-thump. Th-th-thump…thump. She is covered. Covered in a sticky substance that reeks of metal, her vision blurring so that she can barely see. Next week: Seeing Red I'm Feeling Blue – Chapter 39 of Believing Improbable Things. Omg, I think I'm getting plotty. _

_Pixc_


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